


The Lonely Lion

by Liam Lachrymose (Unpluggedsocialfilter), Phil Lester (Unpluggedsocialfilter)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Blue Eyes, Brown Eyes, Death, Dreams, Drowning, Entrapment, Fire, Fluff, Heartbreak, Jail, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Melancholy, Omniscience, Phanfiction, Poetic, Revelation, Sad, internet browsing position, life - Freeform, longfic, reflective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpluggedsocialfilter/pseuds/Liam%20Lachrymose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpluggedsocialfilter/pseuds/Phil%20Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear Editor,<br/>I write to you from the Lonely Lion's last known location, though will be moving on long before you read this. I hope that you find my script intact and legible, for it has been through many storms to finally arrive into your hands today. I hope that you find my work and documented travels a useful anthology to pass on to the wider community concerned with the subjects of this compilation. For this reason, I cannot stress enough that these documents are terribly important. I tie the knot around this stack of paper and leave it for you underneath the Willow inside Hyde Park, London, and sadly must depart with haste before my presence is discovered. I sincerely apologise for my hasty departure, but wish you well in your reading and hope, against all possibility, that you may be able to find the next chapter in this documented tale at the location that we'd agreed upon in our last exchange. Finally, I hope that you too can appreciate the sorrow with which I present this tale; you will find enclosed ‘The Existential Exposition’, the first document pertaining to findings concerning the Lonely Lion, and the disappearance of Daniel James Howell and Philip Michael Lester.<br/>Sincerely,<br/>Liam Lachrymose</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Existential Exposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note (21 Dec 2017): I actually hate this story. I was considering taking it down because it's just not my style or uniform with my other fics. But in the end I thought to keep it. You guys can see what my first was like and how far I've come, kinda like why Dan keeps up his Hello Internet even though he hates it--I have a love hate relationship with this fic in a similar way. Read if you want to have a bad time lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> My name is Liam Lachrymose, and it is my duty to document this sad tale. I hope that wherever you are, you will find my message and my research as a warm comfort in this diffecult time. It is through these pages that I take my sadness and tears in my stride to produce you with the bound version of the documents that you have so eagerly anticipated. I regret to inform you that as of this stage, I have no new information to write, or any loose ends to tie, but rest assured that I will be in hot pursuit of the cold and dead trail left behind by the Lonely Lion, as I continue to uncover the mystery surrounding his disappearance from London. I also wish to take this opportunity to warn you of the sadness and sorrow that you wi’l feel as I aim to give you an oppartunity to vicariously live the true ewents that are about to be revealed for the first time since their happening. As I have encountared these facts, understood the information they gave, and paid my respects to their origin before documenting them, I warn you that this anthology may arouse feelings concerning neglect, abandonment or perhaps memories of the deaths of loved ones. Now would be an excellent opportunity to abandon this text if you are prone to such sentiments, as you will find enclosed a story entwined with love, lust and friendship. The things that I miself experience as I strike these keys, and mark the paper with my message, their story, and his last words. I hupe that you understand that enlike the fairy tales of your childhood, this story does not have a happy encling. No, instead, I regret to inform you, but aim to spare your future pain by telling you now, that there is no happy ending. There is only dcrkness and mystery surrounding those that you had listened to on the radio and those that you had paid your utmost attention to on your screens at home. What I now say is this: on the radio, you hear only static, and on your screen, you see only a single image, the last image, of your idols.  
> Simcerely,  
> Liam Lachrymose.

The Lonely Lion, back then known simply as ‘Lion’, had a golden mane, an innocent face obscured by his exaggerated nose, and his ever smiling, white, furred mouth. The shy, though nonetheless adorable ‘teddy’ as ‘he’ used to call him, had always been as such: an unchanging and eternal companion.

I have found in my investigations that perhaps his favourite pass time was to spend hours on end sitting by a sturdy tripod with a camera perched atop, taking in the lively aura of the room. The light of day would stream in through the window, crushing the shadows created by the colourful green checkered bed in the center of the room. It was with one thought that Lion would spend his time near the camera tripod, or occasionally in shot, perched on the bed post:

_I don’t want to ever leave here._

I can only assume that he’d been referring to the flat in which he sat so patiently, waiting for ‘him’ to return home after a long day at the BBC, or the place in which he smiled brightly and encouragingly at him, as ‘he’ sat in front of his camera, delivering a string of heartfelt yet lively and uplifting words, in an animated voice that would make even the twittering birds fall from the trees.

When doing neither of these things, and when ‘he’ wasn’t home, Lion would make use of the vintage type-writer that ‘he’ had lugged home after showing an interest in its mechanics, mesmerised by its complexity in the most adorable fashion, wide eyed and mouth gaping when ‘he’ first saw it. Lion would bash a variety of keys, enjoying the satisfying _click_ that sounded when a new letter had been imprinted onto the page, the ink forever setting into its fibers.

Even more so than this, Lion’s favourite part of the day would be when he felt his mane being manipulated to stand tall, his nose cleaned of the dust it may have gathered and his heart fluttering at the thought and experience of being loved and cared for. There was no one else that he’d rather know to give him these feelings, than ‘he’, his best friend, his life-long companion.

The world called ‘him’ ‘AmazingPhil’, but ‘he’ called himself just ‘Phil’.

Phil was a curious man, though sometimes he was referred to as a boy, the innocent and pure kind, rather than the reckless type. His fine, shiny and precious ebony hair always swept to the side of his face, sometimes creating a ‘fringe gap’, a phrase that he had commonly used to refer to the space where his fringe started, stopped, and started again. One would be able to tell that Phil was quite confident in himself, his words carrying conviction when he needed them to, but also conveying love and hearty phrases when he wanted them to. A truly kind and gentle man.

Although his time exposed to the world through the screens of millions of fans had not tainted his personality, torn away his innocence or shaken his childlike sense of curiosity, it had exposed him to a world of darkness, commonly referred to as the ‘black hole’ of the world network of communications, something that you might have come to know as the ‘internet’. Such a system was no place for the precious virtue of Phil, at least not without a companion of his own. In this regard, Phil had often turned to someone else – someone that was not Lion.

Lion would never resent ‘him’ actively, but as I sit here and review the largest file that I had recovered from London, I sadly report that it certainly didn’t seem this way. Lion had all too many built up feelings, most for his Phil, but some of the alien figure of Daniel James Howell.

From the remains of the old flat, my colleagues and I have investigated as best as we could, but found only a few meaningful documents. If you wish to spare yourself the pain and sorrow of reading through this fragment of the investigation, then I suggest that you put this text down immediately, for now would be an excellent opportunity to remove yourself from the sitting room, parlor, bedroom or library in which you find yourself reading this recount, before you are questioned about your lack of composure and watering eyes.

_april 20 th, 2013_

_phil,_

_you will never read this message, i’m certain of it. you’re probably too busy off with ‘him’. with daniel. filming some sort of gimmick with him by your side, or maybe busy ‘borrowing’ his cereal, as if you’re so close to him that you can share anything and everything, including your trivial cereals. i miss our time together. why did you have to leave me? why leave me for him? i don’t remember the last time that i sat by your tripod, or was perched up by your side. now it’s dan. where dan is i should be. you call on him for everything that you used to come to me for. and since you’ll never know any of this, i sat here today, like the lonely lion i am, and looked out to the city. i peeked through the gap of stray light that you allowed through the thick curtains. and what did I see? i saw nothing but a smoggy london sunset, clouds bearing down on the town and rain drizzling down the glass. then i looked closer. and what did i see? i saw a dirty mane, a dusty nose, a pair of tired and cried out eyes, and a broken heart. me, the brave, fearsome and roaring lion, now the lonely and lachrymose, pitiful creature that i’ve become. i’m no longer above the skyscrapers of london when i look out of your window. instead, those buildings are hunched over me, blocking me inside their shadows. why have you left me to them? your cute little lion is no more, now i’m just a lonely lion. completely insignificant to someone who used to give me all the care and love in the world. i’ll just leave you to yourself, and probably daniel. you can find me locked away in your cupboard of old things, or maybe under your bed, gathering dust and cobwebs. i’ll just lay there, and think about how i lost my best friend, but where do i even start? i’ll stay here, out of your way, and you’ll surely forget me, forget what i stand for and represent in your life, which i bet by now, is less than nothing. i mean nothing to no one now. and if i mean nothing, then what value am i to you? i came into your life to be with you and you only, but now i’m not sure what i’m supposed to do. if you ever find this, all i can say is that i’m sorry, and i hope you are too._

_your old friend,_

_lion_

If you’ve ever lost a friend, then you already know how it feels to be alone. If you haven’t, then I can only try my best to make you imagine it. It’s a sick feeling of emptiness that spreads throughout your body. It starts eating at your heart and slowly makes its way to your eyes, but no amount of tears or wailing can flush such a sickness out. It’s a feeling that you’d wish only the worst of people to feel, but even then you might feel remorse. Perhaps worst of all, it’s a feeling that rids you of any sort of meaning. It makes you feel worthless and useless. A true Lachrymose experience. Secondary to this horrible feeling, how does one eradicate it? For Phil Lester, and later the Lonely Lion, and now myself, I regret to inform you that it is simply impossible.

The now Lonely Lion sat in his corner, too afraid to leave Phil’s room, out of fear that the walls would collapse in on him as soon as he’d attempt to cross past the door frame. He feared for his life that he’d never be able to return to the familiar scent of Phil’s room, the place that harboured too many memories for Lion to want to forget. However angered and miserable he seemed to be, while Lion could feel repulsed by his mistreatment by both Dan and Phil, he could never hate them. Too many memories had been shared with them for him to be able to hate them. But that was the thing; he couldn’t move forward or move back. He was stuck in a liminal space within which he couldn’t give up, hate them and never look back, but neither could he love them without dreaming the impossible dream of the feeling being reciprocated wholly.

 

Dan and Phil forced through the front door, the moonlight and deathly cold air of the night sky following their warm bodies through the open port. The Lonely Lion couldn’t help but feel a sense of happiness as the two moved upstairs and towards Phil’s bedroom. Lion had been waiting many days for Phil to glance at him, for him to be brought back up from under the dusty and cold ground that the bed sat on. Lion sucked in a breath as he anticipated being held again, held to the heart of his best friend, with whom he now so desperately wanted to reconcile.

It was with great lust that the ebony hair of Phil flew through the air to turn to Dan, who was standing only just behind him in the bedroom. His slight fringe gap and now ruffled hair instantly took the innocent and rounded edge from Phil’s being, transforming him into an entirely new person as Dan’s smile widened across his face, accentuating the dimples that Lion thought were so annoying, yet so perfect in the way that they caused a flare to ignite within Phil’s heart.

Phil’s pure lake like blue eyes stared directly into the now dirty brown of Dan’s, a silence falling over the both of them before the smiles disappeared, that is, they were covered by Phil’s lips on Dan’s, causing them not to be seen. Phil felt the warm and soft mouth of Dan, his lips and tongue given entry into it, free to explore a place of which Phil had only ever dreamed. They loved each other, a thought that depressed the Lonely Lion’s mane further. But for Dan, he loved pulling Phil closer than physically possible, wrapping his cold arm around Phil’s warm one. Phil always knew he’d enjoy such intimacy, the pushing of his fingers through Dan's soft and curling hair, which would result in a soft moan from both as they shifted against each other, always hugging around the back of each other’s heads and near the waist.

Despite Dan’s advantage of a few inches of height, Phil took pleasure in assuming a dominant role over his partner, dictating which way they’d move together, leading the movement of their feet as they slowly danced around each other, maintaining their lips in lock. The Lonely Lion became only more solitary as he listened to the sound of his best friend, a feeling of happiness spreading through him for Phil, but a feeling of neglect inhabiting his conscience as he longed for his attention.

It was as quick as a gunshot that Phil had pulled away from Dan, interrupting their moment.

“Phil, what’s wrong?” Dan inquired, a look of worry spreading across his face, his dimples hastily returning beneath his skin.

“I… I just,” Phil began “I just… need some time,” he continued, the tears welling in his eyes, turning them from a calm sea to a stormy ocean. Phil continued to sob in his partner’s shoulder, as Dan could only comfort him in a broad hug. The tear stained Dan, eyebrows furrowed, left the room as he sensed Phil’s need for solitude, the poor boy being hit once again with the shock of discomfort that his twisting and turning life, his sexuality, sometimes caused him.

With the only light in the room now being the glimmer of the moon through his window, Phil waited patiently for the click of Dan’s bedroom door, a signal that there was enough distance for Phil to feel truly alone. His eyes returned to a calm state as he reached over to his bedside table to find Lion, however he was not there. The absence of his best friend, his closest companion, to rival even Dan, troubled him deeply as he grabbed desperately to his pillow for comfort. The Lonely Phil felt crushed by his foolishness.

“He’s probably just left now, and I can’t blame him” Phil muttered to himself between sobs. Phil noted that it was usually Dan that would talk to himself and force himself to undergo the pain of being alone, without reaching for the other, who would only ever be a few steps away, but he thought to himself why it was that he could not go back to Dan now.

Thoughts of Lion packing the few possessions that he had and abandoning Phil ran through the boy’s mind, groping him by the strings of his heart and pulling him in directions he never thought possible. Though he rarely showed it, Phil was the sort to think beneath the surface, a trait that Dan usually claimed. It was normally Dan that lay awake at night, or paced about his room, allowing deep thoughts of existence and purpose to float through his mind, sending him spiraling into an ever expanding abyss of questions. However, tonight it was Phil that found himself indulging in this exact activity. His life-long companion, his friend since birth, was nowhere to be seen. If Phil couldn’t take care of a cuddly stuffed animal, then what could he do? Questions like these, questions that he feared would never be answered, pooled in his head as he felt the soft and furry prickles of a certain Lion’s mane curl up on his chest.

“Lion, I’ve really missed you. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you,” Phil softly whispered, his voice taking on a golden quality. One that he so often hid from the world, from the internet. It was a loving sort of tone that he reserved for Lion only, and maybe Dan on occasion, if he were feeling loving enough. Though Phil understood that Lion could not talk back to him, he knew that he comprehended the words in his own way. It was with this that the fluffy, warm animal leaped off of Phil’s chest and scrambled towards his desk, where Phil stored a variety of miscellaneous items, including his vintage typing machine. Lion began typing a phrase to Phil, though was not able to hold the shift key long enough to strike a capital letter, which was in Phil’s opinion, a unique and adorable signature pertaining to the work of his loving friend.

I’m afraid that I was unfortunately not able to recover the text in its entirety from the rubble of the block of flats, but nonetheless present it as a part of my findings.

_my phil,_

_i love you with all my heart and want only what will make you happy. i wish that we could be close like we used to be, but it’s just unfortunate that  ------ works so much against us. i don’t like it that i spend so long under the bed on the cold hard floor with the cobwebs. all i want is to be back with you and to be loved again. it’s been the worst torture to be pulled away from you, and i wish that you weren’t so busy, especially out with ------------ all the time. can’t you just love me again?_

Phil recoiled in horror as tears streaked down his now pale face. Though even in that moment, he appeared no less golden than when he had the sun shining on him, as it always seemed to follow presently behind him.

His thoughts raced back through the weeks as he tried to recall the last time that he’d seen Lion’s innocent face. Too long ago.

“Lion! I’m so sorry,” Phil began, sobbing louder by this time, barely able to spit the words out. “How could I have forgotten you like that? I promise I’ll never let you go again”. The promise, however, lasted for a shorter time than Phil cared to admit, as he then paused to hear Dan pacing around in his own room, he himself feeling the discontent that Lion had been feeling all along.

Dan had sent his mind into another crisis state, the questions unraveling his rational head.

“What am I doing with this boy?” He silently questioned, his flustered figure stomping heavy steps into the carpeted floor.

“How could he ‘need some time’?” Dan’s heated voice raised serious doubt within his head as his rational senses tried to force this new angry conscience out. But, after all, Dan and Phil had always been very affectionate, even before they had decided to be together, so why was it now that Phil had such a problem? Dan began to question what he was worth to Phil; did he matter at all?

“Of course Phil doesn’t care about me over his Lion, I’m just a silly child that he met on the internet,” Dan paused, thinking about the hate that consumed his muddy eyes as he said each word with such aggression. He pondered momentarily on how close to the edge of what he saw as equitable he was. But he was enjoying cutting so deep into his own life, taking its meaning, and saying what he wished without a care in the world. He enjoyed the release so much that he continued.

“He would never choose you over Lion. You’ve known him 4 years, and he’s know Lion for more like 24.” It was the worry in Dan’s voice, coupled with the conviction in his words that he began being swallowed by them. Dan had always loved the cute face of the toy lion and how it mirrored the very attractive personality of Phil. However, it was, after all, a toy. In Dan’s eyes, it was not comparable to a human like himself and he believed deeply that though his existence was essentially meaningless, he at least deserved better than the fluffy toy. However, it was Dan’s subjective perception and his long lost childlike purity that prevented him from seeing through Phil’s unique, beautiful and dazzling eyes. The untainted duck blue.

The loud noise emitting from both rooms caused the boys to stumble into the hallway, their crying and distraught faces leading them to a tight hug, an exchange of warmth and a feeling of safety. However, away from the warmly lit hallway and the feeling of reconciliation, the hard moonlight beamed through Phil’s now open window, beckoning the Lonely Lion as he placed his letter from April 20th and a newly typed one by the intricate typing machine. With his suspicions of Phil seemingly confirmed and his letter just, he slipped out into the brisk London night air, disappearing as he fell into the dark recesses of the gloomy streets below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> l thank you for indulging in my work thus far, and although I cannot pronise any new additions to this anthology at the present moment, rest assured the authorlties and I are in hot pursuit of further clues. However, I cannot guarantee the sussess of my search into the Howell-Lester incident. Nonetheless, I recognise it as my duty to document any and all findings, and take this opportunity to remind you, the reader, that my work is with the intent of bringing light to this terrible tragedy, no matter how dismal these findings are. The Lachrymose Editing Co. will surely be able to produce you with a new script as soon as my co-workers are able to locate and load it to the database. Nevertheless, I must warn you, as I sit by outside of the Howell-Lester building, that the future of this anthologie is shaping up to be rather glum. If you are foreign to the feeling of despair, I can only suggest that you place this text down immediately, for the loss that one could feel thrcughout this recount is sure to horrify anything less than the average reader.  
> Finally, to my editor, I must express my gratitude for yor interest in this project. By the time you read this letter, you will have found your own copy of ‘The Fable Felony’, left amongst the rubble of the Howell-Lester apartment. Inside, please find attache the location of the next exchange point, for I will inevitebly be unable to hand my expected additions to my research from my arms to yours. My absence, however, should not prevent this story from being shared. I’m afraid to say that our next meetimg may be farther away from us than our last.  
> Until next time.  
> Sincerely,  
> Liam Lachrymose


	2. The Fable Felony

A wave of light penetrated Dan’s normally dark room, blessing the inhabitants of the black duvet with its glorious morning rays. Phil's jet black hair gladly reflected the glow of the morning sun, shining beams into Dan’s open heart-eyes as the two slumbered through the morning. While Dan was lying awake, he could envisage nothing that would make these moments, his moments with Phil in his bed and by his side, any less alluring and comforting. The warmth of the sun reflected from his perfect hair, the beaming light of what could be several more suns emitting from his eyes, despite them being shut peacefully from the outside world as the older boy continued to sleep, made Dan’s present stand still. Dan couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that Phil had asked to sleep in his bed the previous night, that Phil had convinced him that he did in fact care, and that Dan wasn’t simply a kid he met on the internet.

I am happy to say that they were much more than this, and it was now that Dan could fully realise it. The moments stretched into minutes which stretched into an hour. A full hour. One which involved the perfectly guiltless Phil Lester being admired inch by inch by his lover. From the way in which Phil’s lips turned up at the sides from the added comfort of Dan with his arms wrapped around Phil’s waist, all the way to the curiosity that Dan harboured for what lay beneath Phil’s soft eye lids.

Dan was well aware of what Phil’s lover-eyes looked like, however he couldn’t ever put into words how they looked, how they stoked a fire in his heart that could keep him as a mentally functional human being, no matter the occasion. However, Dan had always considered it an injustice for Phil to hide his eyes from him during the hours of the morning. This had not always been a problem, however with Phil in his caring arms at this golden moment, Dan couldn’t help but wake before him and snatch a glance of his peaceful state.

Phil painfully woke. By now, the sun had moved on from the window, leaving the room slightly darker. The jolt of fear that lurched through the boy as he took a moment to recognise which dark recess of his dreams he had woken in subsided as he felt Dan’s strong arms pull him even closer, protecting him from the unknown. Though the shadows that the sun created had since covered the two in darkness, Phil could feel that it was Dan’s presence beside him, a comfort that allowed Phil’s back the luxury of lowering further into the mattress as he relaxed into the body of warmth beside him.

Though both men were awake, Dan did not cease to focus his fully dilated eyes on Phil as he rested his head on his hand while his elbow propped him up on the pillow. The perfect position from which to admire Phil. Phil’s eyes fluttered as he turned to face Dan, breaking the one armed hug but instigating something that was, in Dan’s eyes, much better. Phil'd now fully open, fearless, bright eyes beamed at Dan, lighting the room and making it as though the sun had never left. Dan shot a smile back almost as soon as Phil had revealed the stunning clear skies that existed beyond his eye lids.

“You’re so beautiful, Phil,” Dan slowly stated, the articulation of each syllable and the laziness of his voice adding to the truthful words, and the calm that Phil now felt in Dan’s presence. Dan had expected a tender or perhaps playful response, however he was met only with an image of the side of Phil’s lips shifting rather quickly. The sides of his lips fell hopelessly from their turned up position to a droopy one, his eyes beginning to hide from Dan as the clear skies became littered with rain. The rain that flooded Phil's world with despair.

The already colourless room turned darker, each tear slipping from Phil’s storm like eyes washing the room of more life and light, until nothing was left. Nothing but the darkness.

Before Dan could comprehend the silent sobs of his best friend, the love of his life, he had already left the room, leaving Dan to the darkness. However, it was not his fear of the dark that scared Dan the most.

In all people, there are two types of fears: rational and irrational. Being scared of the dark is an irrational fear. However, being scared of loss, of love, of life, and of death, is not. It was not the darkness in the room that caused Dan to retreat beneath his black duvet; it was the absence. The darkness that Dan felt, not the darkness that he saw. The lack of Phil caused a tear to slip beyond his fortified eyes. He was vulnerable yet tough enough not to let anyone see him bleed.

 

Phil burst through the door to his room, allowing the cold air to take him as he planted himself on his bed, stuffing his head into his pillow. Despite his room being a composition of colours, green, white, blue, and all else, to Phil it felt bare and horrid. The open window continued to allow the deathly winter freeze to tear through the room, chilling it to a hellish temperature. Phil carried himself to the window to seal it, wondering why it had been open in the first place. It was not until Phil, still teary eyed, passed his desk of collectibles that he spotted an ink stained sheet of paper next to the cold metal of the typing machine.

The letter that Lion thought he’d never read. The one from April 20th.

Phil’s water damaged eyes scanned the paper, falling victim to the dark shadow that clouded over his head as he read on. It was his depressing state that had brought on the shadow, the colour leaving the room as he read over Lion’s words.

Each of Lion’s words. Each syllable.

They stabbed another knife into what was Phil’s guiltless heart.

Another knife into his childhood.

The knives became lodged.

Stuck in him.

They became knotted together into a tangled mess by the ropes of his heart.

The same ropes that Lion had managed to painfully tear out and use as puppet strings.

Puppet strings that could pull Phil in all directions. Take complete control of his emotions.

It was then that Phil noticed a second note, a newer paper, left in the machine.

_phil,_

_you said that you’d love me. you promised that you’d stay with me. but where are you? you’re with daniel now. it’s my mane that’s still lying flat, and my nose that hasn’t been dusted off. i am your childhood, your life from those times before, and it makes part of me die inside to know that you’ve thrown it away for ‘him’. i only want to be back with the phil from those times, but he may as well be dead. like i’m going to be. because i hate being the lonely lion._

_goodbye, philip michael lester._

“Lion what have you done?” Phil whispered to himself from his new-found sitting position on the cold, carpeted floor. He was curled up into himself. Into a ball of solitude. The boy’s sobs loudened as the hot tears trickled down his tired face. The heartbreak and the jealousy of his best friend, the neglect, had already unraveled the rest and sense of regeneration that Phil had felt only mere minutes ago with Dan.

“I can’t do this alone, I love you too much Lion,” Phil barely breathed out as he exited the deathly cold room and entered the warmth of Dan’s. Phil found the younger boy curled up beneath his duvet, grabbing onto all hope that the dark would go away. The fearful boy raised his head above the covers, to bathe in the presence of his AmazingPhil. The room felt lighter, though I regret to inform you that it felt only so for Dan as he forgot of the darkness, realising in that moment that Phil was tear struck and that no amount of darkness could parallel the fear he now felt for his love.

“Phil!” Dan desperately called “Why are you so upset?” Dan’s voice shook as he struggled to enunciate the words, in fear that he’d say something wrong, somehow make the situation a worse struggle than it already was. The black haired boy approached the bed and curled up into the warm fortress that Dan had built, a sanctuary in which Phil could feel safe.

“It’s,” Phil barely pushed the words from his quivering lips, but knew that he had to go on. He had to tell Dan. “It’s Lion.” Phil's words resulted in any happiness in Dan’s face being wiped clean off. His eyes became overshadowed by his eyebrows as they furrowed in confusion, in utter disbelief.

“He’s gone, Dan! He left me letters, telling me that he’s so depressed and so alone, that he doesn’t feel,” Phil paused. “He doesn’t feel”.

He couldn’t say the next word. That would legitimise the truth. Finally prove to Phil that he’d lost Lion forever.

“Phil, I’m your best friend. Your boyfriend. We’re in this together and you have to talk to me,” Dan exclaimed, taking Phil by the hand and clinging onto it out of fear that he’d suddenly disappear too, that the darkness would return and haunt him.

“Lion thinks that I don’t – l – lov- love him anymore,” Phil finally managed to breath out between his sobs, which had soaked through Dan’s bed shirt as Phil lay under the covers with him.

Dan couldn’t respond to this. He didn’t know how, all he knew was to reassure his love with those eyes that he knew could make Phil feel anything but upset. Without saying another word, Dan shifted to the side of the bed, not afraid of the darkness that he felt as he left Phil inside the warmth.

“Phil, you wait right there,” Dan said, shooting a smile at Phil to reassure him that he’d be back shortly, before exiting the room.

Dan returned to the bed presently, a stack of folded sheets, some string and a handful of pegs in hand. A broad smile appeared on his face as he began to suspend the strings above the bed, clipping them to the objects on the walls of the room high up, either side of where Phil lay. Dan beamed his infectious smile at Phil, the dimples he was so famous for caused Phil’s heart to flutter, and not because someone was making it dance like a puppet, but because he wanted to feel that way.

“Dan, what are you doing?” Phil gently requested of him.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Dan replied, the smile on his face growing stronger.

Dan placed the sheets over the strings, creating a small enclosure around the bed, walls to keep the two safe from the troubles of the outside world. A wide smile began to form on Phil’s previously pale face. The blood began to return to it and transformed him back into his usual golden form at a faster pace the more and more he smiled.

Dan shortly returned after a trip downstairs with two laptops and two hot chocolates carried on a tray in one hand, and two lamps in the other. He placed the steaming drinks down by the bed and put the laptops inside the walls of sheets which now surrounded Phil’s entire body, like a tent would a camper. With the lamps, Dan had another idea. He placed one aimed at each side wall of the sheet tent, flicking on the light switch and causing the darkness to retreat into the corners of the room, powerless against Dan and Phil’s tent like sanctuary.

Dan then crept inside the sheet tent to rest on the bed, propping both Phil and himself up with pillows. They were almost ready to assume a comfortable browsing and slurping position, a term which is commonly used to refer to a comfortable physical layout with which one would slouch into a wasted day of internet based procrastination.

The light from outside shone into the warm tent, illuminating the two boys and forcing the depressing shadows that loomed over Phil’s head high up into the ceiling of the tent, where the sheets converged. The warmth of the drinks created a fuzzy feeling within the boys as the liquid slipped down. This, coupled with the cheerful smile of his boyfriend and the feeling of security, made Phil happier than he had been all morning.

Dan and Phil enjoyed their time in the sanctuary of sheets, giggling about posts on tumblr and watching some of their friends’ newest videos, but most of all, they enjoyed the feeling of each other. Phil’s pale face had quickly become a golden tone again, Dan’s dimples dug into his cheek as a result of his wide smile, and the two had never been closer because of it.

Phil felt comforted and forgot of the troubles that the world, just mere meters away, would thrust upon his shoulders once he would step out. For Dan, he knew that no darkness could catch him in this place, that he and Phil could remain forever in their safe haven, that nothing could touch them. Phil placed down his laptop and snuggled into the taller boy’s neck, whispering lightly, “Thank you. You’re my strong hearted Lion”.

It took only mere minutes however, to remember that the troubling world really did lay just outside.

 

A large shadow cast over the now gloomy city of London, consuming the sun and the day. The Lonely Lion stumbled in the darkness of the street gutter as the rain settled in, the droplets falling and staining his mane as he limped through the space in between the towering buildings. Each building looked as it did from Phil’s window. Larger than him. The dominant force. The shadow that cast over him made him mean nothing as he struggled to move away from the tidal waves of rain water flowing down the gutter of the London street. The cold, murky water lapped over his mane, sending him under and making his once prickly fur a dead and damp flat space.

_I just want to go home. I just want Phil._

The Lonely Lion’s thoughts were clouded with the ebony haired boy, wanting him to make the water go away, wanting Phil to make him feel safe and dry.

_But that can’t happen. Not with Daniel there to take him from me._

The Lonely Lion continued to think as he scrambled from the gutter onto the pavement, seeking refuge under a nearby shop cover.

_What am I worth to Phil? He only wants Daniel. I might be his past, but Daniel is his future. There’s no turning back now._

Despite the darkness, despite the rain, the Lonely Lion continued on his path, leaving the sweet thoughts of Phil behind him, and taking only his anger, hate and envy forward.

 

Phil had stayed snuggled into Dan for many hours, his peaceful face returning to him, and his hair becoming a mess of ‘sticky-uppy-bits’, a phrase that commonly referred to bed hair, or the ‘hobbit hair’ of Dan in the morning. Though Phil usually would have adjusted his hair after conducting a fringe check, a phrase that referred to the correcting of imperfections in the hair of the British boys, he had no desire to do so in this place. The sanctuary meant for Phil that he could be himself, not be concerned about what others might think, and could be completely exposed in the face of his love.

Phil woke much later to find himself in the familiarity of the sanctuary, though for Phil, it was not a sanctuary without Dan by his side. Phil jolted out of his peaceful dream, one consisting of Dan sharing a kiss with him on the middle of the bridge adjacent to Parliament. Phil would have given anything to experience that moment with Dan right now, but after the previous night, he thought it better to simply wait for his torn feelings to subside. His loyalty to Dan, his love and his future, could clearly not exist while Lion reminded him of his past. Phil knew deep down that he’d have to choose between who he was and who he could possibly be, but that could wait. For now, he’d much rather bask in the warmth of Dan’s scent, it still being radiated from his pillow, despite his side of the bed having turned stone cold without him in it long ago.

Phil exited the tent, admiring Dan’s effort in building the sanctuary and dreaming of the way his chocolate brown eyes had bathed in his own ocean blue ones as he constructed it. The beautiful thought was interrupted by Dan as he stormed back up to the room, his chocolate eyes turning quickly from flustered to relieved as he saw Phil awake and before him.

“Phil, I thought you’d never wake up in there!” Dan exclaimed, hugging his love tightly, as if to never let him go. Phil could only reciprocate the tight embrace, though he knew that he couldn’t give his heart to Dan just yet, not until Lion could come to his senses, or until Phil could make a decision. Phil’s ocean blue eyes fought off this on-coming storm, not wishing to turn Dan’s chocolates to muddy sadness with his tears.

“Delia Smith pancakes?” Phil questioned, noting the late afternoon time and his own deprivation.

“Your wish is my command,” Dan said, his voice fluctuating as he attempted to conceal his laughter while bending over into a low bow and flourishing his arms sideways, similar to a curtsey that one might see performed in front of the Queen. Though for Phil, it was a movement that suggested Dan’s full commitment to him. Phil’s laughter at the gesture filled the room; all the shadows from the long since dead lamps suddenly ceased to exist as the sound reverberated off the walls and forced the shadows out. The resulting smile on Dan’s face motioned for Phil to move with him to the kitchen, where the happy couple spent an hour of cooking, joking, and light flour throwing, dirtying themselves with the fine white powder.

In this comfortable situation, this brief moment of happiness, I would do anything to say that the story ends here. However I must not be the one to fabricate details, to report unheard truths. This story is about the Howell-Lesters, and I regret to inform you that their troubles had only just begun.

 

It was during the rainy dark of night that the Lonely Lion fully accepted his fate, the crushing shadows of the buildings now being replaced by simple darkness. The old street lamps illuminated a path behind him which the Lonely Lion so desperately wished he could take: the one back home. Though he knew that the one he must take lay dead ahead. The fuzziness of his sight through the heavy rain made it difficult to see his destination, though he took warmth to his cold blood and impulse from the faint light of the lamps as he followed them down the winding midnight street. The cold stones under his soft feet filled him with regret and remorse, but he knew that if he went back, nothing would change. He’d lost hope too long ago for that.

_He’s probably curled up with Daniel, sitting by the TV without me._

The Lonely Lion’s depressing thoughts clouded his mind further, as he quite enjoyed justifying his anger and jealousy with these details.

_Yeah. That monster is probably throwing his ‘skill’ at Mario Kart in Phil’s face. The loudmouthed, undeserving twat._

It was the Lonely Lion’s resentful thoughts that kept him company throughout the night as he trudged further towards the Thames River, wishing to become lost in its waters and forget about Daniel. Forget about Phil. The Lonely Lion was too lonely for anything else to bring him comfort. The crime that he’d committed against Phil, the crime of abandonment, stayed strong in the forefront of the Lonely Lion’s mind even as he continued to push it out with his hateful thoughts.

_No. It wasn’t my crime. It was Daniel’s. He’s torn me a part from Phil. It’s no longer a crime because of that. It’s a felony now. A felony which can be paid by only the greatest price of all._

 

While Dan and Phil sat by the television, their faces illuminated long into the night by the bright screen and their hearts kept warm by the presence of the other, the Lonely Lion sat by the base of a street lamp, filled with denial and regret.

If I’ve learned anything from my pursuit of the Lonely Lion thus far, it’s that for every crime, for every decision, there is always a consequence. A consequence that the Lonely Lion and Philip Lester will soon realise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> I’m afraid that my findings are becoming further and further soaked with despair at rate consistent with my lips being soaked in clrink. While I feel rather accomplished to witness my reserch on these events have such a effect on the backdrop of journalism and beyond, I must remain resolute in my spirits. I must not become optimistic, for this case, arguably the most important exploit of my journalistik career, remains a simply unpleasant one. I would also advise yu, the reader, to do the sane. Do not hope for what simply cannot be guaranted. Do not hope for love, do not hope for life, do not hope for death. Despite a strong inclination for all these things, I must remain true to the rule that it is undesirable to desire. Desire implies an inordinate amount of longing. Desperation. For this reason, I remain strong against the pull of those dazzling hazel tides. However, I allow myself the luxury of surrounding myself in their comfortable waters in the hope that it may bring you, the dedicated reader, some closure to recent events. I sumit myself to the hazel tides, a slave to the currents. I plunge into the depths to bring you my reserch, despite akcepting that the calm sea may turn to the stormy ocean at any time. It is through the risc that I take to pursue the Lonely Lion that I am able to produce to the Lachrymose Editing Co. the next insiallment of my findings, documented in ‘The Guileful Gaol’. For these at Lachrymose Editing Co., I hope that you are able to find the only surviving copy of this installnent bound to the bridge across from the Parliament buildings on the Thames River. Embrace the plunge, the cold, and the murky depths of the Thames.  
> Sincirely,  
> Liam Lachrymose


	3. The Guileful Gaol

Bernard Kelvin Clive once said “your mind can be either your prison or you palace”, however, I regret to inform you that on this late night, Philip Lester’s mind was far from a palace. Phil had determined that the night simply wasn’t a good time for him to sleep; his overactive mind was infecting his conscience with guilt for what he had supposedly done to his Lion.

Oddly, it was Dan that had said goodnight to Phil at the reasonable hour. It was Dan that had left for his room and stumbled about in the dark, trying to find the light switch before he was eaten alive by some horrific monster. Though the sun had been down for the better part of 6 hours, Phil wasn’t ready to submit to his mind, to sleep and be preyed upon by his thoughts. Dan had long since left Phil in the kitchen, left him to his computer, to his video editing, and to his lonely thoughts. However, Phil felt as though he would only be able to sleep with someone else by his side, and he would have done anything to have Lion’s prickly mane curl up under his chin as he slept, guarding his body and protecting his good heart.

 

The first rays of golden sunlight littered the kitchen, and Phil instantly fell to sleep at their touch. They sent him into a trance, pushing him to slip deeper and deeper to his thoughts, until he was consumed by them entirely.

 

Phil jolted awake, sitting upright immediately from his lying position on a stone cold floor. The surface had been hard against his unsupported back, causing him great searing pain as he became awake and aware of his surroundings. Phil’s thoughts immediately jumped to Dan, before questioning himself.

 _Where is he? Where am I?_ Phil thought in a panicked inner voice. Phil’s mind had always spoken in the way that he thought he sounded to others, so naturally it took on a caring tone and a non-threatening lower register. However, the way in which he thought these things could only serve to accentuate his worry, as his voice slipped an octave higher, and his tone became concerned and scared, the words being sounded faster than ever before.

Now on two feet and with both eyes open, Phil noted that he was surrounded by hard, thick stone. The room in which he found himself was considerably small, and was comprised of three stone walls and a similarly constructed floor and ceiling. The fourth wall, however, remained solid, yet transparent. It was a set of iron bars and a heavy wrought iron gate. Phil took immediate notice that the room appeared fairly bland, the stone projecting a dull grey colour and the only furniture inside being an old, torn and soggy mattress placed on a cold metal frame with rusted metal springs and a poor excuse for a toilet. The toilet in the corner was exactly what you’d expect: it was surrounded by flies and other insects, eager to get themselves stuck in the waste that littered the area surrounding the base of the horrid excuse for a bathroom. It was also with worry and concern that Phil noted that there was no basin, toilet paper, shower or bath.

The odour of the toilet quickly directed the fearful boy’s attention away from the part of the room that he wished to forget, to a newfound unpleasantry. Some ceiling stones were missing, thus the floor was littered with the damp liquid sloshing from what must have been a room above. As it seeped through the stones and dripped to the floor, the water droplets created an echoing sound and splattered the surrounding area upon landing, which in Phil’s mind, only furthered his unpleasant situation.

Phil felt further horrified as he moved his hand towards his head, only to discover that his perfect black fringe had been removed, now replaced by a cleanly shaven forehead. In fact, his entire head, now white as a ghost, had been shaved and he now had no hair at all. A dark feeling of sickly surprise spread across Phil’s mind as he began to shrink into himself, wishing to escape his horrible circumstance.

If this was not concerning enough, the faint light coming from beyond the bars of the room caused Phil to realise that he was truly alone. Truly in a prison from which he could not escape. He lay on the soggy and uncomfortable mattress, curled his knees up to his chest and allowed the thick tears to soak into what little dryness the mattress had left to offer.

“I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here,” Phil repeated, over and over again, until his throat became dry and he could speak no more. The silent sobbing, however, continued. It became further apparent to Phil that he was undeniably small and insignificant in this place as even the tiniest noises would alert the entire dirty prison of one’s presence. The sound of Phil’s sorrow echoed off the walls and found its way around the never ending complex of halls and cells. A place that went on forever. Beyond infinity.  

Phil kept moving to adjust his fringe, only to be hit squarely in the face by the fact that he had no fringe to adjust. He had no companion now.

Dan was nowhere to be seen.

Lion had abandoned him entirely.

The one thing that had physically distinguished him from any other boy was now gone.

He was stuck in this place, barred in by the frozen iron of his confinement.

The cold room became even colder as the night wore on, and not only because of the horrible insulation that the stone cell provided. He had lost Dan and Lion, did something terrible to lose them forever. Phil’s ocean blue eyes had long since transformed into the stormy sea, though the intensity of his crying had worn off as the hours went on. Phil was now unable to muster the strength to stream even the tears out. Instead, Phil’s eyes looked pathetic; they were in a liminal space between a stormy and calm vastness. However, this time, Phil did not have an island in the middle of his stormy sea to hide away on.

No oasis in the vast desert to take shelter.

No sanctuary to seek refuge and forget of what lay outside.

No Dan.

No Lion.

Phil was completely and utterly alone.

 _Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?_ Phil continued to scream in his mind. Even his thoughts were loud enough to escape his head and reverberate around the confined cell, each echo reminding him of his present moment from which there was no escape.

The lights flickered outside the cell, and eventually failed, leaving Phil in the dark to silently sob. The darkened place only accentuated its horrific standard, the stench becoming overbearing and creeping up the guiltless boy’s nose to take him by surprise. The dripping water constantly grounded Phil’s senses from day dreaming of a place in which he could feel safe.

Phil then felt a soft, furry, little animal creep onto his now damp shirt – the Lonely Phil could now be lonely with the Lonely Lion. However, only one thing separated Phil from his saviour, and that was the fact that Lion was free, his own person, and Phil was not. Phil was not recognisable as _Phil_ anymore. The real Phil would not have talked to himself, paced around the room, constantly drifted about in thoughts of despair. No. The real Phil would have been optimistic, hopeful, and one day, would be proud to say that he made it out alive. The real Phil would never deem his life, his individuality, stripped from him just because he lacked his once immaculate hair. The real Phil wouldn’t let this change his personality, and he would carry on and simply grow his hair again. However, this was not the _Phil_ that Lion saw before him.

No matter how much he tried, Phil couldn’t touch Lion, couldn’t bridge the gap between his imprisonment and Lion’s freedom. He was Lonely Phil, and the animal was Lonely Lion. However, they were not lonely together. The Lonely Lion picked up off of Phil’s shirt, as if to make a statement.

“Phil, where did we go wrong? How could you do this to me, and to Dan,” Lion slowly pronounced, though it came as a shock to Phil that Lion spoke in the voice of Dan, though not in his usual, animated style.

“What did I do?! What happened to Dan?!” Phil frantically responded, the anger rising within him. Phil’s heart accelerated to speeds worthy of a ticket as the seconds ticked on. This was a phrase that Phil, in his allegedly adorable fashion, commonly used to get Dan to calm himself before losing any more money to the heart-rate police. However, now he was no better than Dan. He could not calm himself because he was not himself. He was not his own body to control, nor to calm.

“You killed us, Philip,” Lion began, accenting each word with venom, “we’re dead now”. The words stabbed Phil deep inside. He had done such a terrible thing. He had killed his two best friends, his boyfriend. What separated him from Lion, him from Dan, was that they were free in death, and he was trapped in life.

“How? How did it happen?!” Phil violently demanded “You have to tell me,” he continued, though the worry and confusion in his voice diminished his intended harsh demeanor. The Lion simply floated off of Phil’s soaked bed, and retreated beyond the bars of the cell. Phil rushed towards the bars, only to be stopped by the boundary that separated the dead from the living. The boundary that separated the free and the trapped. Phil desperately grabbed at the bars, hoping to burst through, though in his heart, he knew that it wasn’t possible.

Phil’s naked head cocked toward the hallway beyond the bars in hope as he noticed a tall figure striding through the darkness that lined the outside of the cells, “Dan! Over here! I’m over here!” Phil screamed out, however it did nothing to convince Dan’s figure to stop walking. Just as soon as Dan’s figure had stepped into Phil’s view, he had walked off in the other direction, converging with the horizon as he paced down the never ending walkway.

“He can’t hear you Phil,” Lion explained, seeing the hope die from Phil’s face and the paleness return. “He doesn’t know you even exist. He doesn’t know who you are,” Lion continued, his malicious tone and the way he drew out each syllable with a smile making Phil cry once more. This was what hurt the vulnerable boy more than anything else imaginable.

“What have I done?” Phil desperately questioned, “What have I done?” Phil continued to sob into his arms as Lion hurtfully told him from beyond the bars: “You’ve killed us Phil, but now that Dan’s gone, you have me to love for eternity. I forgive you, but Dan doesn’t. He’s gone now. He’ll circle back around your cell and keep walking forever, but he’ll never stop. Not for you. Not after what you did”. Each word wrapped itself around Phil’s throat and choked the tears out of him. Violently strangling him, but not killing him. Making him suffer, though not putting him out of his misery. That would be too kind of death.

Too kind of death to let him out of his cell.

Lonely Phil watched Dan disappear over the horizon that the endless hallway stretched over, crying harder into himself and clutching the cold iron bars of the dirty cell. Phil’s body slumped down into a mess on the stone cold floor, his arms on the bars being the only things to prevent him from falling completely to the ground as he wept, watching the tears wash the grime of the floor away.

He was right where Lion wanted him now.

 

“Phil! Wake up Phil! I’m fine, I’m here. I’m not dead. You’re not dead. We’re okay,” Dan urgently conveyed as he again attempted to shake his love to consciousness.

“I wish,” Phil sleepily began, not entirely aware of his regained footing in the true reality “I wish I was dead,” Phil finished, not lifting his head from where it rest when he had fallen asleep. Phil slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the strong light that flooded the kitchen of his flat.

The flat that he’d fallen asleep in.

The flat that he shared with Dan.

The very same Dan that was in fact alive, and not dead.

“Dan! You’re here! You didn’t leave, I didn’t kill y- it wasn’t real,” Phil began to explain in a grateful tone, his head quickly rising from the kitchen bench he had slept on. However, Dan only looked at him with worry and confusion consuming his eyes. It was more of an explanation for Phil to follow than anyone else. Something to ground him to reality.

“Yes, Phil. I’m certainly alive. Erm.. Should I not be?” Dan spoke cautiously, wanting to understand what Phil’s horrible nightmare had been about.

“Dan, you were dead. I dreamt that I killed- and that I was,” Phil couldn’t continue without more tears staining his now colourful cheeks. “that I was trapped in jail, and that you stopped loving me and that I was left alone,” Phil finished, an ashamed look on his face for thinking such things. The scared boy lowered his head to rest on the kitchen bench once more. He couldn’t tell Dan about Lion breaking them apart. That would make it all the more truthful in Phil’s mind.

“Phil, my sweet, sweet Phil, I would never leave you,” Dan paused, thinking of how best to reassure the exposed boy “I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to,” He confidently stated, beaming an encouraging look at Phil as he lifted his head once more to bathe in the look that Dan never failed to give him when he was upset. Dan took Phil’s trembling hand gently as he led the black haired boy to the couch, sitting him down.

“Can we talk about it a bit more?” Dan questioned, wanting to know every detail that Phil could possibly recall.

“Well, I woke up in a dark room, I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t know where you were. I was scared Dan. Fucking terrified,” Phil began, taking little notice of Dan’s flinch. Dan had always admired Phil’s considerate nature when it came to his language, so it came as great shock that Phil had cursed. Nonetheless, he paid his utmost attention until Phil had finished the recount all together.

“Phil, I don’t know exactly what to say, but you know that I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here whenever you need me,” Dan reassured, allowing his older half to snuggle into his chest. Phil ceased his sobbing as Dan brushed his fingers through Phil’s hair, which the vulnerable boy now noted was definitely there, and hadn’t disappeared.

“I love you Phil. Don’t you forget it,” Dan slowly stated, articulating the words so delicately that Phil could do nothing but smile, despite the inner ordeal that Phil had to battle as he considered when he would be able to tell Dan that he loved him back, without sentencing himself to the jail of his mind. A jail in which he would serve the sentence for destroying his friendship with his Lion. Either way, he would inevitably be sentenced to this guileful gaol. All that was left to decide was who Phil would choose to remain behind.

 

Dreams can often be deceiving, however, I have found increasingly in the world that what doesn’t seem to be deceiving, almost always is. This was certainly the case for Philip Lester after having experienced this horrifying reality. As for the Lonely Lion, I must sadly report that he was deceived by the prison that he had erected for himself upon seeing Daniel and Philip together. He made a place where he could vent, but be unheard. A place where he could hate them and feel no remorse. However, the Lonely Lion, from his cell, could not see beyond the bars to view things as they really were.

 _You hate Dan. You hate Dan. You hate Dan._ Lion thought to himself as he sat underneath a parked car. He waited patiently for the night to come so he could continue roaming on the streets, making his way closer to the Thames River. The Lonely Lion had spent much of the morning waiting, so had ample time to process his thoughts and think through what had been done to him.

_Phil ignored you. He’s so consumed by Daniel. He doesn’t pay any attention to you. It’s not Phil that’s doing it to you. It’s Daniel._

The Lonely Lion had now become the Lonely Envious Lion, the one that would stop at nothing to gain Phil’s attention. The attention that he so actively gave to Dan whenever he wanted it, and even when he didn’t want it. Lion sat in the shadow that the vehicle over-head cast on him, the shadow that made him completely and utterly insignificant in the scheme of the bustling street which he sat on.

However, it was this same shadow that blinded the Lonely Lion from the truth being that all things must die, sometimes even friendships. All the people surrounding the Lonely Lion will die. One day. The problem in this case is that unfortunately, animated little Lions can’t die. They will be forever bound to the Earth, roaming the planet, confined to the jail that it is. The impenetrable bars will separate the living from the dead. The eternal sentence will cause them to envy the dead. To pity themselves. To realise that to be alive and not dead is the greatest sacrifice of all.

He who should be dead will suffer the pain of watching the passing of one soul from life’s soft grip to death’s tight clutches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> I sit in the parking lot directly opposite the London Fire Brigade. I will soon be able to promise you’re another installment to this anhology as soon as my colleagues at the Lachrymose Editing Co. are able to locate my latest script in a certain Starbecks Coffee shop.  
> At this time, I am afraid to report that my health has declined to a rather terminal state following the tragic death of a close friend, a relative. I recognise it as my duty, my sole pupose, to complete my research and to expose this story to the world while I am still able. While I camnot guarantee my newest research to be in your hands for several days at the very least, rest assured that the Lachrymose Editing Co. and I are working towards this tinal product. It is our strong belief that this stony must be told and must be knewn by all who found thenselves shocked by the mysierious disappearance of Daniel and Philip, thus it is with lnaste that I tie the knot around my now work, titled ‘The Horrid Hell’, and leave it for those at the Editing Co.  
> Despite my diclining health, I must note that perhaps it may be possible to escape my guileful gaol, to be phinally able to live. Not aIl is lost, for no matter how tight his clutches, he can never take the freedom of man. It will not be I thet is pitied upon my untinely death, but quite the opposite. I welcome the fredom, to be finally lifted from the shackles of the Earth and taken by his silk touch to a fairer place. A place where I might finally join my love. If there’s is one thing my rational mind will say, it is that fear is not to be felt in death, but in life itself.  
> Sincerely,  
> Liam Lachrymose


	4. The Horrid Hell

The dark clouds once again settled on London, threatening to consume the moon with their sadness. Despite the horrid short sight that Phil suffered due to the rainy weather, he could see the fire that consumed his own eyes, illuminating his world with hate. He hated that Lion was ripping his feelings for Dan from his heart, and he hated that he was powerless against it. It had always been Dan that felt these things, and Phil that needed to calm his mind from its often crisis like state. However, it was now Phil that relied on Dan.

Phil’s mind was infected with guilt. Guilt that he was sure he didn’t need to be feeling. However, it was still every night since the first nightmare that Phil hallucinated iron bars, his containment from the soft clutches of death. The punishment worse than death itself. He’d soon rather take comfort in death’s silk hands than be left on the rough Earth without Dan by his side. He had woken up, night after night, each nightmare becoming a progressively worse variation on the first. It was Dan that ignored him, that stopped loving him. Dan that moved on with his freedom in the first dream. The first time, it was Lion that tortured his conscious and created his horrid hell from which death could not retrieve him.

In the latest nightmares that plagued his mind, however, it was Dan that tortured him. Lion’s demon red eyes had turned Dan’s chocolate browns to a blood red colour that thirsted only for Phil’s happiness. The beast of Dan feasted upon Phil’s smiling memories, destroying his mind and leaving him with nothing but the guilt.

The guilt of Dan’s death.

The guilt of Dan’s new found state.

However, it was always that the real Dan was there to pull Phil to safety, to the haven of consciousness.

Dan’s extended hand reached through the iron bars of the stone cold cell, reaching past Lion and past the demonic Dan that occupied the hallway beyond the cell. As Phil recalled, it was always that the Lion and Dan of the dream were powerless to stop this open invitation that gracefully took Phil from the prison of his mind. When death could not be Phil’s only solace, Dan would be. The outstretched hand beckoned Phil to reality, back to the flat where Dan would always be waiting. Phil’s dirt stained skin reached through the filthy air and past the grimy bars, melting the metal away as he pushed through, for Dan’s blemish free, tanned fingers. It was always during this time that Phil did not care for how he must have looked or smelt. He gave no care for what might be done to him if he were to defy the prison, for he had absolute faith that this extended arm would offer him the end of the hellish nightmare. Phil’s small, shaking hand touched the golden velvet of Dan’s, an instant uplifting sensation of warmth and cleanliness flooding through Phil’s veins.

The murky water that dripped from the ceiling dissolved.

The apparitions of Lion and Dan faded.

The stone cold walls and iron bars melted into white plaster.

The soggy mattress and rusted springs became a dry and warm green checkered duvet.

The stench of the vile cell transformed into Dan’s scent.

The flickering light beyond the cell morphed into a bedside table lamp. One that stayed constant and reassuring.

“Phil, it’s okay. You’re alright, I’m alright. None of it’s your fault,” Dan’s concerned though not anxious voice conveyed to Phil, his breath calm and steady against Phil’s frantic state. The ebony haired boy’s breath slowed, his white hot skin returning to a colourful and cool state as his heart calmed, noticing his younger lover’s arms around his waist. The warmth and steadiness of Dan pulled Phil away further from his hellish rendition of the first nightmare to the colourful green checkered duvet of his bed.

“I’m glad you woke. A few more seconds of watching you in pain would have actually killed me,” Dan said, quite a lot louder than the first time he spoke. The conviction that his words carried concerned Phil, however it was his conviction that convinced the older boy that Dan did in fact care about him. The words told him that to Dan, the real Dan, his feelings and heart weren’t simply puppets to be played with by pulling the strings.

Phil gazed up at Dan’s eyes, seeing the melted chocolate irises as so, and not the red, bloodthirsty ones from his newest nightmare. Phil closed his ocean blues, the seas once again in his control. He didn’t have to explain to Dan what the nightmare had been about; Phil could tell that he already knew and needed no explanation. It was this that Phil loved most about Dan; that he could always understand him and know exactly how to reassure him. To have him believe he was safe. The comfortable silence settled on the two as they rested arm in arm through the early morning before the first rays of sunlight were due to interrupt the blanket of night.

 

The Lonely Lion trudged up the still dark, rainy street towards the Thames River, which was now in sight just ahead. The Lonely Lion’s voyage across the bridge to Parliament, where he would be able to easily slip into the water, was sluggish. Each step that the little furry being took was soaked in the guilt for what he planned to do.

 _You hate them. You hate them. You hate them. This is the only way,_ Lion thought endlessly, though could not push this thought to the front of his mind long enough to forget that no matter how he framed it, the fault was not of Dan, nor of Phil.

The rain had long since soaked Lion’s feet, creating a swollen sponge for him to walk on. Each step vanquished the water, forcing it out of the material, though the very same wetness was instantly reabsorbed in the next step. It was a plague that refused to leave, or desert sand that would stick in the fabric of one’s trunk for years to come. It was then that Lion realised that it was nothing more than that: a plague. A plague that he carried through a never ending, harsh desert.

_It’s their fault. Not yours–_

_Can’t we go back? He’s still my Phi-_

_Don’t give me that, stupid Lion. They don’t respect you_. _You saw it in the way they talked together, the way they kissed. He’s outgrown you._

_No, that’s not true. There’s still time._

_You know what I say is true. You know it that if you go back they’ll just keep on ignoring you._

_But what if I don’t go back?_

_Yes. You do this, what we’d agreed upon, and you won’t need to go back._

A conflict, a fire ready to break out, raged between his mind and his heart, the battle field being his decimated feelings. With each heavy word from the hateful, dark side of his mind, Lion’s eyes grew blacker and blacker with fear, somehow giving the already blackened eyes a blacker edge. His mind was right. The only way to cure himself of this plague, the only way to set himself free, would be to extinguish the fire. Extinguish it in the icy depths of the water. The only way would be to flood the desert with the icy water to make its heat bearable.

While I can describe to you the horrific details of what came next, I simply cannot fully explain the feeling of drowning. For the Lonely Lion however, the experience was not just of being surrounded by the icy cold water of the tears of the sky, it was also his burial in jealousy and despair. It was the doubt surrounding this that came to the surface, making him think again. Though, every moment of delay that prevented his already soaked and tarnished body from being absorbed into the Thames only stoked the fire.

He knew he couldn’t go back. Not now. He knew that he couldn’t go forward. Not now.

_But what if you could?_

This question clouded the Lonely Lion’s mind as his foot penetrated the murky and icy surface of the Thames, as if to test the waters from the river bank. The coldness of the water provided a calming feeling to Lion, cooling the fire, draining his body of the guilt, but taking him with it as tribute.

_Ahh yes. No fighting it now. Let it take you._

 

Lion jolted awake. His fur and mane was still a wet mess from the late night activity by the Thames. He realised with a spark of horror that he was surrounded by not the air of inner London, but rather three cold, hard stone walls and a fourth comprised of thick iron bars. The unforgiving stone floor was the bed for an expanse of still, shimmering, cold and murky water within which the Lonely Lion now lie. Though the lifeless water washed away the dust on his nose, though it made his mane stay tall when Lion spiked it, it was far from the same feeling that Phil gave. There was no warm love in the icy water of the cell floor.

The only light in this dark place came from the light bulb beyond the cell, beyond the iron bars. It flickered occasionally, as if to exhibit its incredible nature. This only furthered the feeling of vulnerability that the Lonely Lion felt as the water around his body consumed him, made him feel small. The icy cold had already stripped Lion down far enough, made him weak to the point that his heart was exposed to the cold.

_Don’t fight it. Let the cell consume you._

Lion waded through the shallow water pooled on the floor to the edge of the cell, where the bars were. He glanced down the hallway, the never ending hallway that lined his own cell and all the others in the complex. He continued to shift his sight between the hallway and the cell, as if hopeful that someone would come to save him, however, no black haired boy came. Instead, a brown haired one arrived by the gate.

”Enjoying yourself in there?” Dan cheekily questioned, the broad evil smile accentuating his dimples as he lowered himself to squat on his knees, sinking to Lion’s level.

“Get out of here. How can you bring me any lower?” Lion responded, putting as much venom and more still in his words as possible.

“I guess I needed to get back at you. Phil is mine, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” Dan confidently stated, gaining an angry look from the Lion.

Lion retreated away from the bars of the cell into the corner of the room, almost fully submerged in the cold water pooled in the bottom of the cell. As for Dan, his tall figure shadowed over Lion, his mocking laugh echoing down the halls. He turned on his heel to walk away down the path of the free, down the hallway and over the horizon. However, no matter how far Dan walked, no matter how much distance was put between the two, the Lonely Lion could still hear Dan’s laugh, the insulting sounds reverberating off the walls. These sounds were no match for Lion’s sobs. They crushed any evidence of his suffering.

 

Lion’s eyelids flashed open, however, the eyes beneath were no longer factory standard black pearls. Rather, they were red, bloodthirsty orbs. The angered cat found himself in a cold vastness, though neither in the horrific hell of the cell nor the expanse of land that separated Phil from Lion. Instead, Lion found himself drowning. Still drowning, just not in the cell.

_You may as well not be in that cell anyway._

_What do you want now?_

_You’re trapped, but not in life. You’re going to die._

_What do you mean-_

Lion’s question, unfortunately, was cut short by a lack of breath. Lion would die as a lonely lion. In this aspect of his life, Lion found similarities with humans, though only in the way that he recognised that all humans inevitably die alone.

Death is not a mutual experience.

He knew that in death, whether one was loved or not, no one would be there to hold their hand, to go beyond the iron bars with them. Whether he returned to Phil or not, he would eventually be forced to part with him in his death. Not even the love between Dan and Phil could survive the inevitability of non-existence, a fact that Lion was only now beginning to realise.

Lion would be abandoned either way, for Phil could never take him beyond the Earth. For Lion, unlike Phil, death was the silk hand, and life was the tight clutch, not willing to let him go, even in this moment of possibility.

Lion’s body violently thrashed around in the depths of the cold, murky water, the horrid hell of the darkness and freeze keeping him conscious to witness firsthand the crushing pain of drowning. As I’ve said, I can only try to describe the feeling of drowning, so what I say is this:

It’s the sudden realisation of fate, of hopelessness.

It’s the realisation that you’ve already taken your last breath, not even able to savour the experience with true attention, knowing that it will be the last one.

It’s the realisation that there’s nothing more to be done than to submit to the sea, to let its vastness take your body as its own.

To shift the control of your body from your mind to the ocean.

To forever give it the gift of your allegiance.

It is knowing that you’ll soon become a lifeless slave to the currents, left at the bottom of the murky darkness to rest, be forgotten and become unloved.

To transform your desires to its desires.

To abandon who you are.

To pay a price far greater than life.

 

Lion’s struggle for breath continued as he found himself in murky grey water. However, every single movement he made, every act of defiance committed, each time that he failed to submit to its depths only angered the water further. Lion felt a tightness in his chest, and felt himself finally falling victim to the depths. Though after all, this is what he had wanted, to die in the river. To be crushed by the weight.

To squish the guilt out.

To forget of both Dan and Phil.

To never have to return.

 _I’m going to die. There is no hope. It’s over now,_ Lion thought, his composure being restored as he stopped fighting. Stopped defying the water. Stopped resisting the currents. Prepared himself to become their unconditional slave. Accepted his fate.

And just like that, Lion truly became the Lonely Lion.

The currents pushed and pulled his mane in all directions, refusing to leave it in one place, like they had undeniable control over each inch of his furry make. They robbed Lion of what he had, leaving only the skeleton of him behind.

However, fate seemed to have something else in mind, and it wasn’t death. Bursting out of the vast sea and breaking the icy surface of the Thames River, the Lonely Lion regained his breath. The currents had brought him to the surface, to float effortlessly in the water.

The currents suddenly disappeared. They recognised the Lonely Lion as just another slave to them, no need to sweep him further away.

Lion could feel the icy depths of the river penetrating his mind.

_You WILL go back. You WILL go back and make Dan pay. You WILL make him pay the penultimate price._

Lion now had no quarrel with the stream or its commands, his body submitted to the sea, even though its currents no longer pulled him. It didn’t take him which way it pleased, it didn’t subdue him, but rather eased his pain and silenced the voices, allowing his mind to do all the speaking that it needed.

However, the price that Lion had to pay for the freedom of his body from the currents was far greater than he could have realised. His body was free, though what lurked in the ruthless depths of the Thames held something far more important to the now Lonely Lion. In exchange for his body, Lion now sacrificed his heart, his eyes and his name.

No longer ‘Lion’. Now, he was the ‘Lonely Lion’.

No longer were his eyes the stock standard black. They were now permanently the demonic red of the hell he’d come from.

No longer was there conflict in his heart, for now he did not have one.

No longer did his heart refute the influences of his mind, for now he had lost it.

No longer was there a force to prevent the sea from controlling his thoughts.

No longer was the Lonely Lion in control, for now the river had him.

The river had his heart, free to pull the strings whichever way it saw fit.

Free to make his heart dance the danse macabre.

Free to take control of him by the puppet strings.

In fact, one would be correct to think that the Lonely Lion wasn’t free at all. Yes, he had escaped the pull of the currents, but at what cost?

I’m afraid to say that the Lonely Lion was now more a slave to the currents than he’d ever been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> I hope that wherever you are, your lyfe never has to become such a hell, that you never have to be trapped in the prison of the Iiving. Heweuer, it has been my pursuit of the Lonely Lion that has made me realise that we are all stuck in the prison of life until death do we part. We are forced to undergo horrific circumstancis, and are only released upon our death; the ultimate solace. To sacrifice one’s life is often called the ultimate sacrifice, however, I now see it as the penultimate. The ultimate sacrifice, one which will sure haunt anyone who is faced with this it, is to sacrifice one’s death. For little toy liens, how could they possibly die? I have found that one possibility is that while their body lives on, the inside dies, thoght I am often questioned as to what this means. It is not for me too know what exactly happened at the bottom of the Thames River, though when one chooses death over life, a sacrifice is made. Life is sacrificed. Though for lions who cannot enjoy such a fate, it is illogical too say that their life can be sacrificed. Instead, I regret to inform you, though their hearts, eyes, nanes or individuality may be taken by the currents, one immortal skeleton always remains. The shell of who they used to be. Whether this idea is found in the coffins of loved ones, or in the living bodies of soulless, lonely lions, the principle remains. The peniltimate sacrifice is to saorifice death. To never feel its welcoming grip. To remain on Earth as those you once loved pass by your cell, dancing down the hallway before disappearing over the horizon. I often find myself thinking these thougts at this time, my own time quickly approaching. It’s almost time to walk down the hallway. Almost, but not yet.  
> Despite the dark nature of my announcements thus far, I am pleased to report that the Lachrymose Editing Co. will be able to produce you, my dedicated readers, with a new script, titled ‘The Incendiary Instance’ no later than Saturday evening. I’ve hope that my colleagues have located this script by some old park bench located near the block of the Howell-Lester flat ruins, though hope must not be trusted.  
> Sincerely,  
> Liam Lachrymose


	5. The Incendiary Instance

Phil’s naked and mud stained skin heap lay curled up on the stone cold cell floor, eyes cried out and tears still streaking down his face, which was now far more pale than before. He had no strength to lift his body from the ground, despite it residing in the vile sea of grey water that littered the entire cell floor. The water was stagnant and stale, emitting a stench similar to that of a week old fruit left in the open air, prone to the humidity and heat of the tropical sun. However, there was no heat nor tropical sun to be enjoyed here, only the dampness and darkness. The overbearing darkness in the cell and constant presence of the sound of water dripping caused Phil to remain awake and grounded to his reality for as long as it took for Dan to arrive.

After all the love that Dan had given him however, Phil could not help but continue living in this nightmare world as he slept, yet he knew it would be alright in the end, as Dan always came to his rescue.

Dan always came, he was Phil’s solace. The one person that Phil could depend on to care for him, to nurse him back to the better times. Back into his loving arms and warm embrace.

Lion soon arrived by the cell out of routine, ready to relay to Phil the nightly dose of guilt that he often received from the twisted dead. However, Phil couldn’t help but focus not on Lion, but on Dan’s hand, mystically arriving out of the fog of the hallway and stretching into the cell to take Phil away. The golden hand had not a single blemish or imperfection to be seen on it, and curled around Phil’s stained glass body, his silk touch ready to lift his fragile form from the dirty water and away to a reality that deserved him in it.

Despite Phil’s mud coated face, despite the stench that radiated from his naked body, Dan’s clean hand did not hesitate to pick Phil up, his silk skin’s golden radiance remaining untainted and pure, even as Phil nestled into the palm. The warmth and the comfort Phil took in being safe was well founded, as it was difficult for him to feel even remotely rotten when in the presence of Dan, especially at this time.

As Dan pulled Phil further from his cell, the stone walls begun transforming to plaster, the stench becoming a heavenly scent, the dripping water fading away and the lake at the bottom of the cell becoming a soft carpet.

Phil’s sad face turned a smile.

Phil took one last look at the iron bars, expecting them to transform to his bedroom door, or perhaps the fourth wall of his room. However, they remained the same set of rusted, grimy iron bars that they had always been. If this was not concerning enough, Lion remained waiting beyond them in the same dirty light.

Dan’s hand suddenly stopped moving.

It stopped pulling Phil away from the cell.

The tortured boy was still curled inside the fable hand when it happened.

Dan’s golden, blemish free hand suddenly became the colour of mud. His palm and fingers unfurled from around Phil’s body as they began to crumble into flakes of ash. His perfect skin’s new found fragility was not dissimilar to that of thin sheets of paper, after being burnt and charred in a fire. The ashes of his hand floated away, causing Phil’s still present body to tumble back to the hard floor of the room. Phil’s body hit the cold floor like a ragdoll would a car, the pain coursing through his aching bones as he felt himself shatter into pieces.

The carpeted floor vanished beneath him. It returned instantly to stagnant, stale water.

The plastered bedroom walls morphed to cold, mundane stone.

Dan’s heavenly scent became the pungent, prison stench.

The lake of the floor once again took Phil inside with a tight pull.

It was not with a feeling of comfort or safety that Phil sank into the depths.

Phil watched from his lowly position on the floor to see the remainder of Dan’s palm and wrist collapse into a heap of ash in the water. Phil’s solace was destroyed, in pieces before him.

Phil’s bewildered eyes had no time to return to a tearful state, for Lion still remained beyond the fully present cell. He was one of the things that remained untouched by the room’s initial transformations. Ever present and eternal.

“You know, Phil, hope is a fragile thing. I wouldn’t trust yours to Daniel if I were you,” Lion mocked, clearly taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in Dan’s obliteration.

“What have you done? What did you do to him?” Phil questioned, a degree of protective anger arising within him, despite his powerless position.

“What have I done with him? More like what have _you_ done with him. You remember that night, don’t you?” Lion’s devious concern only furthered Phil’s anger, as he knew that Lion would take any opportunity to make him feel guilty in the most passive way.

_He’s the guilty one. Block it out._

However, no matter how desperate Phil was to believe his heart, his mind always echoed Lion’s words:

_Had you been there in time, had you been there for him, he would be okay. Had you pushed a little more, he’d be with you now._

“Maybe I don’t remember. Maybe I’ve forgotten all about it,” Phil weakly exclaimed, convinced that perhaps playing the oblivious victim might be of use.

“Fine, let me show you then. You’d be wise to remember the evening of May the 4th this time I hope,” Lion offered, his condescending tone however, still wildly apparent.

The cell suddenly dissolved effortlessly, even without Dan’s welcoming grip to pull Phil to safety.

 

 

Phil’s chest violently rose as he gasped for air, his eyes flying open to take in his surroundings. No longer was he in the cell of his dream, but now in his bedroom. White plastered walls and soft grey carpet surrounded his clean, clothed, cool skin. Though Phil was beginning to calm down, it was a difficult exercise without Dan to help him.

_Where is he?_

Phil was genuinely puzzled by this question; they had slept in his bed the previous night after all. Phil glanced at his phone.

10:30am, May the 4th.

_Dan’s probably asleep still._

With this, Phil wandered from his cold room across the hall to Dan’s bedroom, where the sanctuary of sheets was to be seen still intact, however, they encased no sign of Dan. Phil explored the rest of the flat, checking the kitchen, living room and bathrooms. Dan was still nowhere to be found in the cold and silent expanse of the large flat. With the silence and lack of animated laughter in the house, it felt to Phil as if he was no longer in his own home. It felt to him as if he was exploring and desperately committing the labyrinth to memory in order to locate a bathroom or rubbish bin.

Despite Phil’s thorough search, multiple frantic phone calls and texts to Dan’s phone and a considerable amount of strain on his voice from excessive calling for Dan, he was nowhere to be found.

_Maybe he’s gone for a walk. Not weird I guess…Unlike Dan actually moving from the couch._

Phil let out a slight giggle at the thought: Dan actually going outside out of free will.

Phil then decided that perhaps he needed a walk of his own to clear his head of the troubles that constantly followed him. Too often were they trying to extinguish the flare in his heart of love and friendship as of late.

The peaceful walk however, was not enough to remove the dark cloud of irrational worry that surrounded the innocent boy’s mind. As he made his way to his favourite park, his favourite sitting bench by the grass and trees, Phil couldn’t help but think that this place was now tarnished with these bad thoughts. The seat was cold, as if it were trying to tell Phil to leave at once. As if it were disgusted by Phil’s anxiety and didn’t want to seat a person in that frame of mind. Even the peaceful sway of the trees couldn’t calm the boy. His mind was constantly interrupted by the unimaginable: that Dan would never return to him, that he’d already taken his last glance at the boy, completely unaware that it would be just that: the last. Never to be seen again.

Phil’s eyes watered at this thought. That it may have ended already.

_Phil Lester. Always overreacting; it’s probably nothing at all._

 

As I sit at this desk and write these words, I am reminded of the way in which people always seem to imagine the worst. I will admit that I too am often overcome by this aspect of human nature. While these worries are almost never to be trusted or believed, I am sad to say that Phil’s seemingly irrational worry and concern was far more accurate than anyone would care to admit. To my dedicated reader, I ask that if you prefer not to surround yourself with death, that you close this chapter immediately and read something else. Anything else.

Now, where was I? Ah yes, the admiration of the calming trees.

 

Phil sat by the trees, envy spreading through his veins as he longed to be free in the wind like the branches of the trees. However, Phil knew that he was stuck in his cell.

 

Phil had spent more time out than he could remember spending, so hopelessly began to make his way back to the flat as the darkness was beginning to cloud over the city. The strolling pace that Phil took was slowly turning into a fast paced sprint back to the flat as he drew nearer, his mind being drawn back to the reality that Dan would either still be missing, or be waiting at the flat feeling concerned for Phil like Phil was for Dan.

Phil’s puffed out figure ran relentlessly up the stairs of the flat building, taking two at a time to reach the flat quicker than he’d ever managed. He fumbled with the keys, desperate for time to get the cold metal into the lock. The door finally sprung open. The boy saw a pair of white vans against the wall. Certainly Dan’s.

Phil stormed inside the main part of the flat upstairs, in which the air was as thick as oatmeal and sootier than the air around a chimney sweeper.

Phil rounded the corner and turned to stone at the sight of the living room, if it could even be called a room anymore.

The furniture had been upturned.

Pages of books flew about the burnt air.

Panes of glass lay shattered on the floor.

The darkness of night seeped in as the first clouds of black drifted out of the smashed windows.

Red flames licked at the table and chairs.

Pieces of the ceiling melted away to fall to the floor.

Dan was nowhere to be seen.

“Dan! DAN! WHERE ARE YOU?” Phil screamed, though was unable to contest the loud crackling of the flames engulfing the flat. The creaking of the floors and ceilings as charred wooden beams in the walls shattered into ash caused the entire building to sigh. It made these sounds as if to accept its fate, hunching over and submitting to the flames so that they didn’t have to reach up so far.

Phil’s skin became hot with fear and fire as he fought the unbearably hot air to think of what to do. It was as if someone had taken a desk lamp and focused it on his brain. It sizzled at his thoughts. Decomposed his consciousness.

Phil took it upon himself to frantically run through the rooms searching for Dan, who he knew was inside. All his horrible thoughts and worst realities came to the forefront as Phil realised that perhaps he’d already taken a last glance at Dan. Perhaps he’d never see his sweet smile or eclectic eyes again.

Phil’s world was now filled with crackling flame, distant sirens and flashing lights as he forced through Dan’s bedroom door, breaking the black, charred wood with several hard kicks. The heat of the air melted his tight fitting clothes to his body, though the heat from the burning door melted the sole of his shoe. He burst inside to find Dan lying on his bed, rubble piled on his leg. The room was in worse shape than the living area. Furniture upturned. Carpet singed. Piano screaming for help as its strings were melted and torn. Its tortured upper register screeched out in pain with each passing moment.

Unstable wooden beams in the walls groaned. They groaned to remain upright, like an old man or woman trying to walk briskly like they once did. Trying to hang onto the past and their previously able state.

Trying to live on.

The flames generously licked at Dan’s bed, singeing the sheets that were still suspended over it, though not even the sanctuary could keep Dan safe now. His unconscious and lifeless body was subject to the relentless and intense heat of the fire that threatened Phil’s entire world. Dan’s dark brown hair curled in the hot air as more moisture evaporated from the room and left Dan to his death.

_He’s only young. Don’t take him from me. You can’t take him. Please._

Phil’s hope whittled away like the building around him as he rushed to Dan’s side. He climbed onto the bed to escape the melting carpet, as if he were playing a game of ‘the floor is made of lava’. However, now that Phil was playing this game for real and the stakes were his life and his world, he knew that one small misstep could send everything tumbling into despair once again.

“Dan! Wake up! God, please wake up!” Phil screamed into the lifeless boy’s face as he attempted to shift the rubble that painfully trapped him. Phil took each piece in his hand, not caring that it burnt his skin, singed his hair when his fringe fell into it, nor that it boiled his blood. He did not care that it blackened his skin and forever left its mark. Dan was worth all this pain. The unconscious boy did not deserve to suffer a single second longer.

The sirens continued to grow louder as Dan stirred while pieces of ceiling and furniture fell apart around the two. Phil’s breathing reached the peak of concern as he knew deep down that he had no way of getting Dan and himself out of this one without assistance.

The ceiling continued to crumble, pieces of browning plaster littering the bed and threatening to fly into the boys’ eyes. Phil choked on the thick air, he himself becoming drowsy and ready to succumb to his own death.

_I can’t. There’s still a chance. Maybe._

Phil began to pull Dan’s body from the mess of sheets hanging overhead, trying to formulate an idea as to how he could ever live if, God forbid, he had to do it without the boy in his arms. Phil’s conclusion was the same that it would always be:

_It simply isn’t possible._

The sudden realisation dawned on Phil that Dan’s hand wasn’t there to wrap comfortably around him and take him from his new hell. If Dan couldn’t rescue Phil, then Phil would rescue Dan. However, it seemed that Phil was not confident in his ability to hold Dan in the comforting embrace that Dan always provided for Phil in his dreams, thus Phil found it an increasingly hopeless struggle to rescue his love from the hungry flames.

Phil had taken Dan’s body from the bed and across the room in time to see parts of the ceiling collapse onto the bed, tearing down some of the sanctuary walls with it. Phil was determined not to look back into the blazing room as he dragged Dan across the singed carpet, trying to make it down the stairs and to the door.

While being dragged across the hot floor, Dan’s eyes slowly fluttered open, a blurry image of the flat engulfed in flames and total chaos reflecting from his fearful eyes. Dan attempted to make a noise, anything to draw Phil’s attention to his awaken state, and to tell him that there was another problem.

“Ph-Phil? Phil!” Dan’s voice croaked, unable to spit the words out. It was as if the fire had selfishly stolen so much from the air that Dan was now unable to speak properly.

Dan’s blood boiled inside his veins as the flaming carpet licked at his black jeans, desperate to char his skin and melt away his body like a cheap candle. He tried to scream out in pain, yet no sound came. Dan would have cried, would have sent tears down his face, for contrary to Phil’s optimistic and ideal reality in which they both made it out alive, Dan believed none of it. He knew that he had not a single hope left. However, Dan had no energy or water in his eyes to cry out.

“Ph-Phil” Dan tried, still unable to be audible over the cackling flames. It was as if they were laughing at his feeble attempts to speak. They were laughing at his approaching fate. Finally, Dan flicked his finger to strike Phil’s hand. Phil instantly spun to see Dan’s muddy eyes open and awake, yet fraught and miserable. He stopped dragging Dan along the hot carpet, stopped trying to move him. Instead, Phil hastily picked Dan’s body up to have him stand upright in the burning hallway, though still, Dan’s injured and tired body needed support.

The only tears that Dan could muster streaked down his face as he spoke, “Phil, I’m no-not getting out of here. I’m not lea-leaving this building,” Dan sadly spoke, pointing his hand weakly to his open leg, which had seeped hot, sticky blood through what remained of his tattered jeans. The gash on his shin cut deep, pieces of jagged rubble still stuck inside. He could only walk slowly and painfully, and both Dan and Phil knew it.

“Don’t say that. We can still make it. We have to,” Phil sternly explained as he turned to Dan to grasp both of his shoulders and shake him with each word, as if he were grounding the boy to his reality in which they would survive. Phil focused his ocean eyes on Dan in an attempt to cool him of his worry, though despite his austere tone, conviction in a happy ending and refusal to think otherwise, his eyes were flooded with tears of his own, tears that he refused to let slip. He knew in his heart that Dan was right, though even if he were here with me today, he still wouldn’t be able to accept it.

“No, we are getting out, we are going to survive, we will be fine, we will not die,” Phil continued, the tears creeping down his swollen and sweaty face. Phil’s hands were burnt, they were wrecked, though nothing could deter him from trying as much as he could to pull Dan away from this hell.

“Ph-Phil, just l-leave while yo-you still c-can,” Dan shakily demanded. It was in his eyes that he truly knew that he couldn’t make it through, that he’d much rather ensure the safety of at least one of the two.

“One of us should g-get to lea-leave,” he continued. Despite Dan’s objections and heroism, despite his courage, Phil could see the fear in Dan’s eyes.

He could see how he so desperately wanted to be taken away from the burning building.

Phil could see how Dan’s muddy eyes were fraught with terror, how they only wanted to be wrapped in company and warmth. To not die alone.

Phil could see how his eyes wept for a future they’d never know.

Phil could see how Dan cried for the things he’d never be able to do.

Phil could see how Dan spiraled into misery for those he’d leave behind.

Five and a half million followers.

His mother and father and brother.

The brother that he’d never live to see grow old and happy.

The brother that was too gentle to leave behind.

The brother that he’d now never be able to give anything for.

And of course, the boy that had changed it all. Phil.

He’d never be there to see Phil grow and change.

To see Phil take the world with his smile.

To see him enchant the Earth with his eyes.

Dan would miss a chance at the rest of his life with Phil.

He’d now never be able to thank Phil for giving him what he had.

Phil knew that it took all the muscles in Dan’s body to defy his instinct to cling onto life and selflessly let Phil go in his place. Though, Phil would never be willing to allow his own selfishness to be the death of his best friend.

The person that loved him more than he did himself.

The only one that he’d want to spend the rest of his existence with.

Phil chose to ignore Dan’s pleas, knowing that he deeply desired the exact opposite of what he said. Phil knew that even though Dan wanted more than anything else for the other to be put first, that it was not one sided. Phil too wanted the same for Dan more than anything else.

“And what about me, Dan? Do you think that you’re the only one that wants the other to live more than themself?” Phil inquired, though knew that he’d come across too harsh. Though, what does a dead man have to fear in the last moments of his life?

Despite the great reason behind Dan’s pleas, he was wrong. Neither of their fates had been sealed. All they knew was that only one could leave. It was only a matter of who that one could be.

 

The flames were now spitting ash into the halls, making it impossible to see, impossible to breathe. The two boys stumbled through the piles of rubble that lined the walls as they avoided clouds of smoke forming overhead, though their ash covered faces and spluttering mouths made it difficult to see which way to move. Both tripped helplessly over one another, desperate to escape the burning in their lungs as they stumbled about the darkness in their hearts and minds. Each cough from Dan spat out more black smoke, more silver ash and with it, came more pain and blood that had boiled over in his body. Phil continued to support Dan’s limping body down the stairs to where the door would be waiting for them, however, what he saw ahead made his eyes droop further still.

What he saw made him lose hope completely.

The stairs were crushed beneath the tall, overbearing shadow of a large pile of rubble.

There was no way out now.

“Dan, we’re gonna be okay. Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine. Just close your eyes,” Phil lightly whispered, turning to Dan with a hint of a smile on his face, though it was out shadowed by his once hopeful eyes. Phil simply couldn’t bring himself to believe what he’d said even for a second.

“Phil,” Dan responded, his voice now lacking desperation, for he had no faith in life to bother desiring a positive outcome. He’d given up. Instead, Dan was aware that Phil’s reassurance was simply a statement of their sealed fate. Something to cling onto in their final moments.

Everyone wants to believe that everything will work out.

 

Phil pulled Dan to an untarnished section of carpet on the landing, set him down and collapsed by his side. Phil felt like he had all the time in the world, though knew that soon the flames would catch them, as they always did. Though for now, time stood still.

The sirens from outside became softer.

The roaring flames grew distant, even as rubble floated down the stairs.

The wooden beams encased in plastered walls snapped and crushed themselves under their own weight, though were considerately silent.

The carpet melted. Not even a sizzling sound given.

Even tears and sobs were drowned out by Dan’s heart beat united with Phil’s.

“Stay with me?” Dan questioned, the flames, fear and world reflecting from his eyes as he searched hopefully for an answer in Phil’s.

“Always.”

The two boys made the compromise: if one did not abandon the other, then neither would die alone.

Now there was nothing left to do.

Phil gripped Dan’s free hand as they lay in comfortable silence. Time began to move, though at a snail’s pace as the flat crumbled to ash around them. The boys’ faces were less than an inch away from each other, lying side by side with shoulders touching. They lay slouched against the untouched wall of the landing, nowhere left to go.

That was until Dan’s heart began to slow.

Phil removed himself from his day dream, directing his attention to Dan, who was struggling for breath and struggling for life. Dan gripped Phil’s hand tighter now, the warmth of the two generating beads of sweat along their arms and curling Dan’s fringe.

Phil wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

They both knew that there was still so much to do, so much to see, yet neither could be distressed as they knew that unlike many, they would not be the ones in life to die alone, to rot unaccompanied in separate cells when Death reached in for them. They would be the ones to leave life together, to wrap their journey in a box of memories, hand in hand, and to climb in to Death’s clutches happily, knowing that they’d be doing it as one.

 

 

However, as I’ve mentioned many times before, death is not a mutual experience.

Dan spluttered more blood onto his top, the ash that covered the eclipse on his shirt spreading with each violent expulsion. Phil moved closer to him as both of their eyes lit up in fear at the sight of the flames slowly advancing down the stairs toward them. Phil draped his free arm around Dan’s head to hug him closer and protect his sensitive neck from the world. Phil pulled him close to his heart and pushed his fingers through Dan’s hair. Phil pulled him in to protect him. To not allow the flames the luxury of eating away at Dan. To never let him go. The iron grip of their hands clasped the other tight, and they were subconsciously convinced that the tighter they grasped, the harder it would be for one to leave the other. They gripped tighter and tighter still, to ensure that they’d never be separated once they’d inevitably lose control.

However, as Dan’s heart slowed and his face became pale, his grip slackened. Phil let the last tear that he had slip down his face as he felt Dan being enclosed in Death’s silk grip. Dan could only let his tear slide freely down his face as he went further and further into Phil’s touch. An attempt to forever remember his velvet fingers through his hair.

Dan knew in his heart that his time was coming, that Phil wouldn’t be following him. That Phil could never stay with him forever. Dan’s eyes clouded at his thought. That he’d go just like everyone else.

Alone.

He became flustered and distressed, too many thoughts rushing around to know which to think first. He finally settled on a set of blue, teary eyes. With this, he opened his mouth to whisper something to the terrified boy whose arms surrounded him.

“Ph-il,” Dan began in-between dry, tired sobs, “promise me,” he continued, tightening his grip on Phil’s hand with his remaining strength and Phil responding by shifting his head to look into Dan’s eyes one last time. Phil’s eyes were sore and cried out, his face flustered and desperate. Full of longing. He knew that it was the end.

“Promise me that,” Dan continued, though was cut off by a violent cough of blood, the red floating through the hot air and sizzling as it contacted the burning carpet. “Promise me that you’ll find so-someone after I-I,” Dan sadly tried to finish, the last, muddy tear from his muddy eye now at the edge of his dirtied cheek. In this moment, Phil knew that he was losing Dan, though wouldn’t accept it. He knew that he was taking his last glance at the boy, and that Dan was taking his last breath before his plunge into the depths. Never to come to the surface again.

Though Phil had been consciously afraid that he’d never fully appreciate this moment, that he’d never savour the way Dan looked into his eyes, that he’d miss it completely and only realise once it was too late, Phil was too shaken to take it in. Even as he actively thought of it. He tried so desperately to commit Dan’s face to memory, even if it was becoming paler by the second. He tried so hard to focus on the way that Dan breathed. The way his heart was beating for him.

It was the way that Phil was so focused on these details that he missed observing Dan’s last breath.

He took a last look at Dan’s face, alive but dying, though was so anxious to remember it that in an instant, it was forgotten.

Phil became so distracted and so oblivious to the passing time that he missed Dan’s last words.

“Ne-never for-forget. I love you, Phil,” Dan whispered to the still-as-stone boy.

Phil only stared into Dan’s eyes. He had missed it.

He missed the only ‘I love you’ that he would receive from that moment on.

He’d never hear it again.

Not from Dan. Not from anyone.

Ever.

 

Silence.

 

Only Dan’s distant heart beat could be heard as Phil blocked out the cackles from the flames, their amusement and triumph constantly stabbing at Phil’s ears.

Dan’s grip slackened completely.

His hand turned to cold, dead stone.

Phil hadn’t even noticed his muddy eyes change to chocolate as Dan relaxed into Death’s hand, though he knew that he’d never be able to witness it now.

Too late.

Dan’s once immaculate hobbit hair fast unfurled and fell silently onto his forehead, where his sweat would forever stick it down.

The boiling blood in Dan’s face retreated to warm his heart.

But it was no use, for Death had taken Dan’s heart.

Dan’s face was no longer full of life and colour.

Dan’s last tear slipped off of his cheek and onto Phil’s shoulder.

Dan had made the penultimate sacrifice, though Phil had lost more.

The ultimate burden of living on. Living alone.

The ultimate burden of broken promises made to the dead.

Phil could not live true to Dan’s last wishes.

He did not stay with him.

He did not follow him.

He did not save him.

He will not find another.

Dan disappeared over the horizon as Phil watched from the bars.

No longer were they ‘Dan and Phil’,

For Dan is free while Phil is trapped,

For Dan is gone while Phil remains,

For Dan is dead while Phil is alive,

For Dan isn’t coming back.


	6. The Jaded Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> I am very sorry to have reported the events of ‘The Incendiary Instance’ within this anthology, though I hope you are able to understand that what must be done will be done. I will continue my research into the final chapters of the Lonely Lion’s life and his involvement with Philip Lester, however deeply saddened I am by this tragic loss. Most tragically, I wish that many things could be different. The ‘what ifs’ plague my mind as I sit in my own cell. It is not the torture from the Lonely Lion that I receive, rather it is the torture I subject myself to. I wish that it could have ended better.  
> I wish I could have found evidence to report to you that both Dan and Phil enjoyed a full, happy life together.  
> I wish I could tell you of their eventual wedding and the love they would have given their children.  
> I wish I could say that they were not stopped in their tracks and cornered by Death.  
> I wish I could say that the authorities arrived in time to rescue not one, but both of the boys. I wish that there was more time.  
> I wish I could say that it was I that was able to submit to death and take Dan’s place.  
> I wish that I could say it all. I wish I could say those words one, last time. In full, not in short. In happiness, not in sadness.  
> Above all, however, I wish I could say that he was here instead of me.  
> Alas, I cannot.  
> I cannot fabricate details. I cannot manipulate the truth. I cannot change the past. The world is a cruel place that allows for only misery and despair. Such misery will surely be found as this dismal story comes to a close. Nonetheless, below you will find ‘The Jaded Jealousy’, episode 6 of this gloomy reportage.  
> Finally, please think of me kindly, Dan, for at this moment, I cannot.  
> Sincerely,  
> Liam Lachrymose

Phil pulled his disgustingly cold hand to his face, covering his eyes to wipe the tears away. To hide away in the darkness of his eyelids. He no longer wanted to see anymore. He hated his eyes, the way that they reminded him of everything he had lost. He sees Dan in everything. He sees Dan in the swaying branches of the park. He sees Dan in the dancing air around him. He sees Dan in the empty clothes lining his new closet. He sees Dan in the happy eyes of the children on the pavement. Yet there’s something missing. The branches are of wood. The air is of various gasses and particles. The clothes are cold. The children have, without a doubt, never seen or heard of a _Dan Howell_ before. And they never will.

Dan had always believed that the world would move on, and keep moving on still, long after his death. He knew that he really meant nothing at all. The world would continue spinning and he would be forgotten. Phil, however, knew that even as the world did continue spinning, without Dan in it, his mind and memory would never stop spinning. They would always be alert, trying to recall Dan’s face, his smile, his hair and the way it used to curl after a steamy shower or in hot weather. Phil would miss his dimple, especially when his second one would reveal itself to him. Though most of all, Phil would miss his lively, brown eyes.

Even as Phil was forced to move away from his shattered memories that lay in charred piece to a smaller flat, he still sees Dan in his sleep. He sees him walking past his cell and disappearing over the horizon. He sees Dan’s face resolute, totally ignorant to the constant pleading for his return as he walks briskly past. The ignorance to the constant pleading for one more moment, just one more touch, eats at Phil’s being.

Phil sees Dan in the cell every night.

And every night, Lion makes sure of it.

 

“Hello, Phil,” Lion greeted him, the devious smile broadening across his face. His mane stood tall and intimidating. His nose was polished and shiny. His eyes were the red and yellow of fire. He stood in clear contrast to Phil’s shaken state on the dirty cell floor.

“What do you want from me now? Why can’t you leave me alone?” Phil desperately asked, now more than ever wanting nothing to do with the prison anymore. He wanted more than anything to leave the cell and follow the path that Dan had taken. He’d do anything for the chance to see Dan just one more time.

“You know that I can’t do that. Not until you realise that Dan’s six feet under because of you,” Lion spat, pausing to allow the knife to lodge inside of Phil. “Just see for yourself. Go back home and see how pathetic you were. How stupid you were,” Lion finished. “Go back and remember why you’re alive and he isn’t.”

Lion turned to walk away from the bars, leaving Phil to his solitude. Phil curled his naked head into his knees and cried, for he knew that he’d never again see Dan’s hand reach through the bars to retrieve him. He’d never have that comfort. He knew that he’d never escape the dirtiness now. He’d never walk out of the prison to breathe in the fresh air. The only air that he could breathe was the sooty stuff that had seeped into the cell when Dan had left not so long ago.

It had only been a week since the fire. Already Phil felt as though he couldn’t go on.

It was out of routine that Phil would wake up sooner or later, yet he’d still feel as trapped as ever. Inside his new place or inside the cell, walls surrounded him either way.

The cell instantly dissolved.

No smooth transitions between the dream world and the real one, for they were the same, horrific place. No need for the cold stone to shift to white plaster, for Phil would never see the pure of white again in this world.

 

Phil woke violently in his new and uncomfortable bed. He hated the way that the mattress was too hard, the way that the stuffing of the duvet filled the distant corner and left him shivering. However, Phil still woke every single morning before the first rays of sun, drowned in sweat and fear. Every night he would frantically cry out in his sleep shortly before waking up, heart racing and struggling for breath as he reached desperately for Dan’s sleeping body beside him. He never found it. He soon after would become aware that he’d never find Dan. The golden hand would never be his solace. He was completely and utterly alone.

Phil sat upright and stiff in his cold room. He hated the dark colours and the emptiness of his unfurnished place. He hated the brown wall paper that reminded him only of Dan’s eyes.

_Calm down. Remember when Dan went home for Christmas? It’ll be just like that, only a little bit longer._

_No, it won’t be like that. It couldn’t ever be like that._

_Why?_

_Because I knew that he’d be back. I saw hope. But now I see nothing. He’s not visiting his parents. He’s not even away on holiday. He’s never coming back._

One cannot take any pride or victory in winning an argument against oneself. It exposes only the stupidity of simple innocence being slaughtered by the blade of realism; if Phil ever managed to keep his innocence past the age of 12, he no longer had it now.

His blue eyes and burnt, black hair had been touched by Death. Part of his heart had been lost. Dan had been torn away along with it.

Phil had no desire to lie awake and be preyed upon by the ‘what if’s. He so desperately avoided the ‘could have’s, ‘should have’s and ‘would have’s. He hated those forms. They reminded him only of the reasons that he’d never love again. He could have come home earlier. He never should have left. Maybe then, Dan would have gotten out. Maybe then, Dan would still be alive. Maybe then, Phil would find Dan’s broad and comfortable arms wrapped around him, instead of the restrictive ones of his dreams.

Phil tried to show no patience for entertaining any of these notions. After all, there are millions of possible futures at which a person can arrive from only one past. Dan was in the past now and not even a million ‘what if’s could alter it. Realising that there is only one past, knowing that there is no point to imagining others, is the only way to truly move on. However, in the heat of such a time, no one can be blamed for being unwilling or unable to simply abandon their past and ‘move on’.

Despite the persistent cold of the dying winter, Phil left the flat and began to walk. He walked until the sun came up to shine on his face.

He walked until the trees lining the park entrance sprung new flowers with the new season shining through in full.

He walked with the thought that while the rest of the world was blooming, he was crawling back into his shell to sleep through the excruciating winter. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Phil soon arrived by the park bench that he had sat on only a week earlier.

The cold bench reminded him of what he’d lost. He remembered the last time that he sat in this very place. He remembered the way that the cold bench had told him to leave. He remembered how he had ignored it. However, what Phil didn’t remember and what he saw now, was that he took less than half of the space of the bench. He now so desperately wanted Dan to sit with him and take the other. He so desperately wanted Dan to complete him. He felt alone in such a big space, like he would have felt had he not downsised to a smaller flat.

Phil looked at the trees, focused on the way that they had not a worry in the world, for the wind simply did all the movement that they’d ever need. He noticed how carefree they were. How easy their lives were. Though he also hypothesised that they’d do as much as he would to live in the circumstances of the other.

_We are free from worry. But we are also free from life. We live and we die. Nothing in-between. We do not fear, for we find it pointless. Why would one acknowledge their fear of something when they cannot do anything to change it? We are slaves of the wind, the way the pearl is of the currents. We are in the ground. The pearl is in its shell. We do not fear, for fear of what cannot be controlled causes only madness._

Phil listened to the trees as they spoke. They tried to tell him of the power that he had to influence his life. Dan’s last breath had been swiped away by the howl of the wind, and like the trees, Phil could not prevent it. He could not save him. He did not save him.

_We could not move to defeat our fears, if we were to permit ourselves to have any. But you can. Go forth and take your life into your own hands. Make the only wind that you feel be the wind beneath you._

Phil gained his footing on the path to the old flat building with assertion. He felt determined and empowered, momentarily forgetting of everything but what the trees had told him.

He was his own person. He had himself in his hands. He needed no one’s golden hand to rescue him.

 

Phil’s pace slowed as he approached the door encased in police tape, beyond which his life lay in ruins. At this hour, the building was silent and deserted. The early morning air was cool against Phil’s skin, a complete juxtaposition with how it had been the last time he was at the door.

The door was still perfectly in place where it should be.

Phil sluggishly crossed over the threshold. His key still fit the lock perfectly. He had expected that it wouldn’t fit at all. That it would somehow confirm that it was not his life that lay beyond the door in pieces, but someone else’s.

It was as if it was a normal day and he was returning from work. The grey carpet and white plastered walls were no longer singed or charred. There was not a single brown blemish on the ceiling. The air was as thin as paper and as clear as crystal. Phil looked into the living room, where all the furniture was in place and aligned at the perfect angles that Dan had spent so many hours trying to find. The windows were clean and clear, the glass crack-free and allowing the first light to filter into the room. The golden rays touched Phil’s face as he saw through the glow of the room that the walls remained solid, sighing only as they breathed with the rest of the world.

Phil turned at the end of the hallway to face Dan’s white door. The paint perfectly coated the wood as if it was done only the day before. Phil slowly twisted the cool knob and pushed through into the warmth of Dan’s sunned room. The piano stood tall and silent in the corner of the room, its wood a chestnut colour. It did not scream or shriek, but only breathed slowly as it took in the morning light. The rays were streaming in with a special orange sunrise tinge to their quality and shone onto Dan’s bed through the suspended sheets of the sanctuary that remained untouched and permanent. The black duvet, pillows and sheets were flawlessly laid over the mattress, not a single piece of clothing or paper found to ruin its symmetry. The light pierced through the white suspended sheets and illuminated a body of black skinny jeans and a black shirt with an eclipse on it, laying atop the neat checkers of the duvet.

Phil approached the figure, walking soundlessly across the warm carpet. He arrived beside the soft bed and opened the sanctuary to climb in and rest next to the body of clothes. Phil shifted towards him, though felt no response. He draped his arm over the chest of the body, though felt no heartbeat. He saw how the chest did not move. The body didn’t breathe. Phil blinked, as if he expected something to snap into the right place when he reopened his eyes. The body remained still.

Phil suddenly felt the sun shift away from the room, the golden morning rays leaving him to the darkness, as if the sun had disappeared behind a large cloud. Only the light of several dancing, cackling flames illuminated the room. The red-orange flames jumped from the furniture to the walls, to the piano and to the door. Everything that they touched turned to silver ash.

The door instantly became charred, the paint cracking and revealing fractured pieces of charcoal. The knob became discoloured and worn.

Phil instantly recalled the sounds of the piano strings violently shattering, the released tension whipping through the hot air to smash through the wood of the paneling, causing fine wooden splinters to litter the air. The casing turned to fine silver air and soot as each tortured scream erupted from its body.

Dan’s chest of draws burst open and threw his countless pairs of black jeans across the room while the dissonant opera that the snapping piano strings were performing played to the scene. One note low, one high note. The next at a piercing pitch. It sounded as if a child was playing Shoenberg’s twelve tones.

The clothes flying through the blackening ash air caught fire before instantly dissolving into tattered legs and belts.

All of the objects that lined Dan’s room shattered or exploded, furthering the debris flying across the room in front of Phil’s eyes.

The world dissolved around Phil and the body of clothes as the wooden supports in the walls gave way, the ceiling shaking as the terrifyingly loud crack reverberated in the room.

The white plaster bubbled and burst like simmering water approaching boiling point before the surface cracked open and split.

Phil watched as the body lying next to him gathered ash and soot on it. The eclipse became entirely hidden beneath it.

Then finally, the white sheets of the sanctuary became singed and black from the heat of the oatmeal air as the flames licked at them.

The ceiling above the clothed body crashed down on the body’s leg, trapping it underneath.

The sheets tore down with it, until Phil was lying surrounded by the ruin of Dan’s room.

The body was no longer next to him, lying peacefully on the bed. Phil had seen his worry-struck-self burst into the burning room and drag it away, though he knew now that his attempt would yield no success or happiness. Only regret and misery.

 

Phil’s imaginative mind died. He remembered of his ash covered clothes and soot coated hair as he lay atop the singed sheets of Dan’s bed, looking over to the piano that had toppled over from the strain on its weak legs. The keys had fallen away into a smoldering heap. He saw how the ceiling had fallen away, and with it, the safety of the sanctuary. Phil saw how the entire world was there in one moment, and in the next, faded away into charred, distant memories. He wished not to remember the past and the way it had been. He wished to be blind. Though he was no longer jealous of the trees, he envied their lack of sight. Phil knew that returning to this place would only lead to sadness, yet still, he took his life, or rather what remained of it, and did as he pleased with it.

Phil lay in the dark room, the lights broken and providing no guidance. He looked around him to see the once clean room a pile of rubble and crushed memories.

_I can’t do this. I can’t be here._

Phil wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind, though he knew that deep down, he never wanted to forget Dan. Even if that meant a lifetime of missing his sweet smile.

Phil continued to lie on Dan’s bed, pondering on the way that it had all happened. He unrolled the memories of that night until he came to the very end. Dan’s body lying limp in his arms as he said those words.

 _I-I never even told him_ , Phil began to process between the tears welling in his eyes. _I never told him that I loved him back_ , Phil finished, trying to recall the last time that he had said ‘I love you’, or simply shown Dan that he cared. Dan had said it all the time, sometimes out of the fear that if he didn’t state it in the very moment, he’d miss his chance to. Phil had always told him he was silly for thinking that way. What Phil now felt towards it, however, was utter regret.

“I wish I had have told him. I wish I didn’t care about what might have happened. I wish I could bring him back to say it just once,” Phil spoke aloud between sobs. Saying it there, in the desolate room, caused Phil the most pain. He knew that he didn’t have anyone left to say it to.

Phil waited for nothing to happen for a minute, simply reveling in the ruin of the room around him. That was all he had ever done. Wait and wait. To say ‘I love you’, however, he had waited too long.

“I know how you feel,” Phil responded to himself in a slow voice, believing that filling the empty room with sound might cause him to feel less alone. “You said that you’d be there for him. You said that you wouldn’t let him feel alone,” Phil continued, pausing to allow a tear to leave his eye. “You said that you wouldn’t let him get hurt. You said that you’d stay with him.” Phil begged himself not to go on, though knew that if he didn’t admit to it sooner or later, then Dan might leave him in spirit and all. “You said that you’d always be there to protect him. Well, that’s not what actually happened, is it?” Phil questioned, his voice filling with anger and hate. “Who the actual fuck do you think you are? Did you really think that you’d actually be able to make that difference?” Phil paused yet again. He thought of those years in school. He thought of those times when he was least happy. When he had the whole weight of the world on him. “Then he comes along and gives you everything you could have possibly wanted. Everything you needed. You find out that he loves you too. He asks you to stay with him and to never let him go. You agree to live long and grow old with each other. That’s still not what actually happened, is it?” Phil questioned again, the tears now streaking down his face and turning the ash on his skin to a grey, cloudy water. “Did you actually think that you could change? That you could be any better than you were? There’s nothing anyone can do. Dan is gone. You thought that you could save him and keep that promise? Well, you were wrong. Completely. And utterly. Wrong.”

“You’re alone and you’ll always be alone.”

Phil curled into himself and cried into the dirty duvet that was once so warm. He quickly realised, however, that it had only been warm because Dan was always in it next to him. Dan was always telling him how much he loved him. Nothing could ever feel as warm as that.

“I never told him that I loved him too. I let his last words go without even blinking at them. Why couldn’t I just have told him?”

As Phil felt his most vulnerable in the dead room, he felt a damp and prickly fur brush against his leg.

“Because of me, Phil.”

Phil stared at the Lion, mouth wide open, gaping at what he saw before him. “Y-you can talk?” Phil questioned in astonishment. “Why have you hidden that from me all this time?”

“Yes, Phil, I can talk. I can think as well. I know that you don’t love me anymore. I know that you’d rather be with Dan than me. I can see it in your eyes. Knowing that has set me free. The river even said it to me,” Lion explained, the evil intent hidden behind his eyes as he deviously forced them to return to the usual black pearls.

_It’s just like the dreams. Block it out. It’s not your fault._

“Well, I hope you’re happy. Dan’s not here. You walked away and left me when I needed you. There was no pity for me then. I never said that I didn’t love you anymore. But why should I care now?” Phil asked, becoming more bitter towards his old friend as he spoke. He knew that he couldn’t back down now.

“Don’t you understand?” Lion asked, as if he was talking to an ignorant child. Phil became immensely irritated at this and was about to open his mouth as Lion forcefully cut him off.

“Do you want to know a little secret, Phil? I grew sick of being abandoned by you. I gathered dust sitting under your bed, waiting for you to pay some attention to me. But you wouldn’t ever do that, not when you had Dan next door. I wanted you back so badly. I wrote you the letters and you promised me. You promised me that you’d be better. But I shouldn’t have been stupid enough to trust you. I tried to make it all better. I tried to get rid of myself so that you wouldn’t have to. But being in that freezing river taught me to let go. It taught me to put aside my feelings and do what must be done, so I started the fire myself,” Lion explained, a broad smile forming across his face as he waited for a response.

Phil’s mouth dropped open and his eyes welled with tears and disbelief. “It’ll be our little secret. After all, we are best friends now, aren’t we Phil?” Lion finished, his blood red eyes coming to the surface as he saw Phil’s shocked face turn to anger, his skin reddening.

“You. You played with my feelings. You made me feel guilty. You made me feel pathetic. You destroyed my home and you killed Dan! I could never love you. You’ve lost anything and everything that ever made you mine,” Phil exclaimed, trying to be spiteful toward the Lion, convinced that it might do something to bring Dan back, though he knew that there was no chance of it. Phil’s heart had already suffered greatly from allowing it to love Dan. His heart had already been stolen by Death, despite his very much alive state. He couldn’t help but think that he may as well be dead. The ceremony of a funeral would at least recognise the end of his life and would bring him closure and finality. The end to his suffering.

“Yet you loved Dan. Oh, and he never heard you say it. He loved you, you know. He said it often enough. How much of a horrible person are you Phil? You missed his last breath and his last words for God’s sake! You didn’t even stop to return the love he gave you. He died having never known how you felt in that moment. How charming you are, Phil!” Lion laughed, his cackles matching those of the flames that had ravaged Phil’s world. The boy let his tears slide down his face as he turned to face Lion, “you monster. Get out of my sight and stay out of my life. You were right, I don’t love you. I hate you. I’d rather be lonely and unloved for the rest of my life than be your friend. Don’t ever come back. Just go.”

Lion felt untouched by Phil’s words. He gave no care to their meaning. The coldness of the river had stolen his heart and his sense of feeling. Phil could no longer push it around as he pleased. The river had stolen much more than that, however. His longing and desperation for love had been taken. He was no longer jealous of Dan, for he was dead. He was no longer desperate for Phil’s attention, for he had no heart to perceive it. What the river left, however, was only hate. He hated Dan. He now hated Phil. An instinct that knew no reason, for it was all he could remember from his rebirth. What drove him to say those things, however, to laugh callously at Phil’s loss, for which he would have felt saddened by, was not his own will, but that of the currents.

He had destroyed Phil’s life to feel something, but felt nothing. What he longed for more than anything else was to revoke his agreement with the river. He wanted his heart back. He wanted to feel and to breathe. He wanted to live. Though, like the trees and the pearls of the sea, he was still the slave of the currents. Currents that put hate above all else.

He left Phil to the cold room. Phil felt no different with him gone, as he had been feeling deserted since the beginning. What he felt now, however, was hate and anger. He hated that he had allowed his heart to be pulled by the strings straight into the paths of the knives that Lion so deviously set out. He hated that they became tangled and lodged within him, never to be moved. He hated that he had no control over anything anymore. What the trees had said to him swayed his mind no more. He was not his own. He was the wind’s to do with as it pleased. He was as insignificant as an ant in the bustling streets of London.

_There’s nothing anyone can do._

_There’s nothing. Anyone. Can. Do._


	7. The Knotted Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> I apologise profusely for the time that I have taken to complete this story. I am finding that the deeper and deeper that I dig, the harder and harder it is to fill the void within me that I camnot seem to close. Not a moment goes by in which I do nat feel sadness or regret, the consequences of horrible choices in the heat of the moment. If I have learnt anything from this pursuit, it is that time is somewhat like a rope. It is a long string of events, leading to the present and onwards. Is this to say that one can follow the rope and predict the fuIure? No. Sadly this is not the case. The rope is composed of many intertwined strands that are braided with each passing moment. What has already lnappened remains wound tight, though what wlll happen remains only an ever shortening length of possible futures stemming from the one past. While the wound section of rope may become tarnished, torn or erased from memory, it will always ‘be’. The rope canmot be unwound and chanjed. While you may choose to not believe in pre-determined future, it would be ignorant of one not to believe in a future and a past. There is one past. This past was, once upon a time, a present. This present was forged by its past. So on it goes. If there are an infinite number of futures, yet only one can be chosen, then there must be an infinite number of pasts, as in the past the decisions made in the present moment of that past would alter the future possibilities, which now lie in the past. The future is a product of the past. There is only one past. Which fraying, uncertain end of the rope will you choose to braid and re-braid?  
> It is not a good idea to dwell in the past, to re-braid rope that has already been braided, yet, eventually everyone does.  
> It is not a good idea to dig up the dead. Yet that is precisely what I have been doing for some time now.  
> For those of you who are to find this letter, I hope you are able to locate the ‘final’ piece that I have written, titled ‘The Knotted Knife’, by the cemetery in which it was painfully penned.
> 
> Sincerely, 
> 
> Liam Lachrymose

In all the time that I have been abroad documenting and exploring this tragic story, I have constantly considered choice. Why is it that we continue to follow those before us? Why is it that we are utterly ignorant to the ultimate fate which faces us all? Are we so ignorant to how precious our time is that we waste away our choice and choose to live so blatantly within the lines in which we were placed? Is it that we are too preoccupied with our present or the prospect of a future? For Philip, this idea plagues his mind like the intangible thoughts of existence and purpose had plagued Daniel’s.

Such thoughts have returned Phil only to regret and madness in the two months following the incident. He thought of it as Dan’s body, the only true remnant of his very existence, was taken forever from him by the fire in which the young man had always desired to be disposed. It was very much like Dan to ponder on his death and the last choice that he’d ever make. To be buried or to be burnt.

 

_“Earth to Daniel! C’mon you’ve been staring at that screen for forever and you haven’t even started editing yet,” Phil harshly says, not wanting to interrupt the boy, though becoming worried for his absent, meandering mind. “No Phil, I’ve just been **ironically** staring at this screen for the last half an hour,” Dan comments, the facetious tone lingering in the late night air. Despite his humour however, Phil knows that sarcasm has always been Dan’s defense against his caring yet invasive attacks. “Dan! Just tell me you’re not zoning out again. Doing it for half an hour isn’t healthy,” Phil wails, though he knows that something must be bothering the man before him._

_"It’s just,” Dan began, wishing to say it all but unable to find the words to do so. “It’s just that, well you know, when you think about what’ll happen after you’re gone. Your world stops spinning but **the** world, obviously, keeps going. Doesn’t that make you feel small?” Dan questions, his hopeful eyes looking to Phil for a response, or anything to reassure him in his state of confusion. “Sometimes it’s easy to just make everything as small as you need it to be. Like, I just have you right now and that’s all that matters,” Phil ends, satisfied with his response though knowing that it probably won’t alter his love’s state. _

_“_ _Aw Phil you sappy piece of sap. It’s not even ironic sap and that’s the worst part. If you really want to know, I’ve been thinking about where I want to be forever,” Dan breathes out, hoping that Phil will understand him. “Well, I know where I want to be forever…” Phil states, hoping it to welcome Dan to validate what he feels, rather than scaring him away. “I meant where I want to be left when I’m gone. I kinda like to think that I’ll be cremated. I don’t really want to be in a box for the rest of eternity to rot. I think I’d rather be this eternal being that becomes part of the Earth and then is here forever and not tied back by anything or anyone,” Dan explains. Phil smiles at this thought. The thought of the wind spreading his own ashes, while somewhat disturbing, is appealing. He’d be letting go and finally becoming free._

Phil wakes from his memory as he stands in his soundless living room. The walls are grey, matching the furniture with its boring tinge. The floorboards are cold wood, nothing like the carpet that lies dead on the floor with singed ends at his old place. Phil stands barefoot, body chilled by the uninviting flat which felt so bare.

He remembers that day so vividly.

The day that Dan had told him about his wish, though he couldn’t have possibly known that it would become a reality that Phil would be forced to painfully live out so soon.

Phil remembers what he had thought in that moment.

_Dan has a point, being free to roam the seas and the air would be better than being stuck inside a box to rot and go nowhere._

However, recent events make Phil realise exactly how wrong it’d be to call this state ‘free’. Suddenly, Phil has a dizzying understanding of how no one is ever simply ‘free’, not even in death. Inside a coffin or inside the Earth, the walls of the physical world would will surround him either way. It is not like being in the open air provides any more freedom, after all, Phil had heard it from the trees themselves that all are the wind’s to do as it wishes. Why would his countless, burnt particles be any different? Would they not be subject to the whims of the wind as the pearl is to the currents or the Lion was to the river?

Phil looks to a gold and orange coloured vase which sits atop the mantelpiece of the living room, and it seems only such a little time ago that he was carrying it across the sea. He could still smell the salt in the air and hear the harmless water swell up on the land. The feeling of sand stuck between his toes.

_A tired and drooping man carries a colourful and heavy vase across the sand of the beach. His thick coat and pants resist the slight breeze, though still he feels a shivering cold. With each step, his white feet contact the warm sand and his face, the dying summer air. The slight breeze tugs at the man’s legs, urging him forward towards the sea. The cold and perfectly blue water effortlessly breathes in and out as it rises up the beach and retreats back again._

_Rises up, and back._

_Rises up, and back._

_The sun sits just above the horizon, about to slip below the ocean and bring upon the man the cool of night. The man takes a moment to admire the orange light spilling across the sky._

_How beautiful the sight._

_However, he knows that like all things, it will be gone soon._

_The man grows a smile as he is hit by a quicker breeze, though this time it’s colder. The air whips the man’s black hair out of his face and picks his coat up, the thick material begging him to release the contents of the vase. The man lets loose a tear as he smiles at the sun, now beginning to set._

_As the man dips inside the vase to extract the first glove full of ashes, he notices the world freeze around him._

_The sun stays still in anticipation._

_The water can be seen swelling at what is to happen, though waiting patiently for it to be done._

_The breeze holds back and waits for the chance to swiftly dance around the ashes and take them where it pleases._

_The man spreads his hand open as the ashes dissolve into the thin air and are whisked away._

_The sun beams at them, each speck of dust reflecting the golden glint of day’s final light._

_The sea swarms around the man’s feet as he briefly becomes one with the world, like his world had become one with it._

_The fine, grey dust particles spread across the air and float across the water to dip over the horizon as the sun continues to set._

_Phil feels as one with the ocean and the sky as he lets go of his Dan and pushes him forward beyond his grasp. Death had separated them, though in this brief moment, they are one again._

_But Dan is quickly flying away into the sky, and Phil is still down below, waving a final goodbye to his friend and love of his life. Phil smiles as he waves him goodbye, thinking that perhaps he might be able to join him out there one day and float across the world with him by his side. Maybe there is still hope._

Alas, there is none.

Phil pulls away from his dream state, remembering that the single glint of hope and happiness that he had felt in that moment is unlikely to return. Dan is truly gone now.

From the moment that Dan left his body as a lifeless and cold object, Phil felt alone, though a sense of his presence had been following him wherever he went. This idea tortured the man who had lost so much.

Though Phil had been forced to say goodbye to the forever smiling and still body of the boy he loved most before he was about to be reduced to ashes, he still felt that Dan was with him, though his body no longer existed.

When Phil gave the ashes to the Earth, however, he felt him leave. Whatever warmth remained in his heart, whatever comfort stayed with him, was torn away by the horny wind of the dead.

He feels happy only because Dan is free, though from his cell each night, Phil knows that he can only look out into the dank hallway beyond the iron bars that remain frozen shut and wonder where he had gone. Of course, Phil knows that Dan isn’t free. Perhaps he isn’t even ‘Dan’ anymore.

 _Reincarnation could exist, I suppose,_ Phil thinks. He’s been spending an inordinate amount of time thinking this over. While he’s never been one to believe in such wild theories, he has to admit that what had happened over the past months had been far from ‘ordinary’. It at least brings him comfort to think that Dan isn’t entirely done with this world, even though he so often said that he wanted to be. But that was when he was still alive.

 

Phil spends his evening in his uncomfortable bed that simply feels too big for him. However, it’s not as if Phil is not used to the idea of being alone. He has suffered many sleepless nights in a dirty confine, so why should he feel so alone now?

I have already discussed time with you, dear reader, though could I say that Phil’s rope of time has already been wound tight and cut off at the end?

No more fraying strands from which a future would stem?

A blunt and flat moment in time for Death’s grip to extend.

Death’s cold touch would almost be better than the lack of touch that Phil feels now.

In short, I could say ‘yes’.

‘Yes’, I could say that fate has been sealed, though that would depend purely upon my own beliefs and ideas of how the world works; what happens after we’re gone.

While Dan grappled with the subjectivity of reality, it existing due to his ability to perceive it, Phil generally preferred to not think of it. Could it be a comforting thought that Dan had never existed at all, merely a construct of Phil’s mind in a reality in which existence is relative to the eyes that perceive it and the mind that is to live it?

For Phil, however, this only serves to remind him of what he has lost, though also how it really should be no issue at all. Perhaps Dan had gone to a better place, perhaps Lion will no long return and perhaps the only comfort Phil needs is that everything is going to be the way it should.

Though does that bolster Phil’s dark thoughts and push him to madness, or does it allow him to love Dan for whom he had been?

As Phil looks to Dan’s colourful vase and the last memory he ever shared with the boy, he knows that these thoughts only served to lodge knives in his heart.

Dan never shared this final memory with him.

Even if, in some reality, Dan is able to view the living from the realms of the dead as we live our lives, Phil recognises that it will make little difference to this sentiment. Phil cannot know that he is anything more than alone in this moment, thus he concludes after careful consideration that this last action, though shared with Dan in the most intimate way, had never been shared at all.

If the dead truly move on, or are never able to exist in a conscious, metaphysical cloud of thought, then Phil is truly alone now. The feeling of Dan with him can only be explained as his heart gripping to what it can remember. Try how it may, eventually it will forget.

After many jabs through any organ, it will surely surrender the memories it holds and die with the body in which it lives.

Perhaps it is that his current nightmarish state and constant mental torment tactically causes him to drive the hilts of daggers through his own heart, to lodge forever in a tangled mess of heart string and rope, from which they can never be removed.

After all, heartbreak can be fixed no more than the clock can be reversed. If rope ever can unwind, this tangled mess of knots will be sure to stick tight anyway.

Phil cannot save what he has lost, or heal this body of his that has been hurt.

He’s no longer his own in that regard.

 

He’s no longer his own as a pool of red flows out.

Out of the stab wounds he creates as he drives a dagger into his side.

He tangles the blade in flesh and time.

With each violent gasp of pain he emits, somewhere his rope, his life line, is swiftly diced into indistinguishable, tattered ends of what it used to be.

Through the screams of pain and the salty tears of lost hope streaming out of dead eyes, his body too, dies.

Through the cold touch of Death, Phil’s rope levels to a flat surface at the end, the strands tearing apart and ripping away from each other.

As the darkness descends on Phil’s colourless eyes, as the cold red of the blood soaks into his sheets to become a black sludge, the rope pulls down to Now.

The rope rips Phil apart as it splits from the top down. Rips him in two as the blade does.

A feeling of content spreads across his lips as he flies from the object of his body. A certain comfort comes with knowing that there is no more rope to anticipate, simply a flat edge on the end off of which to jump into Death’s silk hands.

They close around Phil with care, taking him from this world and leaving his mangled corpse in the pool of blood behind.

 

Leaving, in his pocket, a final note for whomever should find it.

 

 

 

 


	8. The Lonely Lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader and Editor,  
> We are nearing the end of this story, so I won’t keep you from the final chapter of this anthology for any extended period.  
> I’m afraid I must also ask of your forgiveness; my extended leave from documenting this unfortunate tale resulted only in the burden of the task at hand to be increased. For that, I am truly sorry. With the end in clear, plain sight, I should be able to reassure you of an ending accurate and in agreement with the one which transpired. However, I’ve found that such personal investment in this tale has warped my fear of the facts of life and death surrounding this tale into the all-consuming monster of mental crisis. I would do well to warn you: Do not love.  
> My dear reader, I’ve shown you the facts of love, of time, of life, of death. My questions for you are these following:  
> Why sacrifice the happiness which comes with ignorance for the horrid consequences of love and failed dreams when one day realising its horrid impermanence?  
> Would it not be easier to not love at all?
> 
> I’m afraid that through my many months of absence, medical leave and depression, the answer is that it is easier to love not a single person or thing.  
> It is my own love of this story and the subject matter which cause me the most sadness. You’ll discover that after months of suffering, my conclusion to these questions has been reached as I face my fate.  
> Enclosed below will be the last entry of this twisted tale.  
> Enclosed below, dear Editor, is my final goodbye documented within ‘The Lonely Lion’. As my last desire, I wish it to be published alongside this work in full for my dedicated readers to learn of the truth behind the terrible events which I have tried so hard to explore.  
> Forgive me for my dishonestly and mistrust in deceiving you.  
> Sincerely,  
> Liam Lachrymose

Dear dedicated Readers of this story,

In light of recent events, we, the Lachrymose Editing Co., would like to inform you of the recent death of Mr Lachrymose, and, to present this final chapter, titled ‘The Lonely Lion’ as a work made possible by the contributions of what was recoverable from Mr Lachrymose’s final letters and the work of the unaccredited authors of Lachrymose Editing Co.. This work involves both additions to the anthology written by the original author and text of numerous journalists for the purpose of crafting this tale into tangible prose. Despite the shock of his death, it was Mr Lachrymose’s last wish that this story reach the public, thus we present to you our findings, organised into the format found below.

 

Thank you for your understanding,

The Lachrymose Editing Co.

 

_Hey guys,_

_I’ve thought about Death a lot while writing this story, and it’s getting a little bit long. Even Dan and his PHILosophical mind wouldn’t be able to handle it now. He’d probably make a joke about that pun too, but he’d know deep down that it’s one of the reasons he liked me in the first place. That’s one of the things that makes me feel disappointed in myself. Surely someone who felt so loved and so adored, even when caught making bad puns by the love of his life, wouldn’t be driven to stab himself countless times._

_But that’s exactly what I’m about to do. I’m sorry._

Phil’s body had long since frozen into a stone statue on the hard floor of the dreary apartment. The night air drifts through windows in the house as it slowly breathes the toxic smells of blood, rot, and death from its confines. The sound of distraught cries from months of torture flutter happily from the apartment, which quickly gathers dust as the distant, dampened sound of a clock hand ticks without missing a beat.

By the moonlight of the living room window, the brittle fibers of Lion’s mane can be seen, gently blowing about in the breeze. The overwhelming silence of the city as it sleeps feels foreign to the small animal, who before now has never experienced the painful absence. However, as the tiny Lion walks to the heap of clothing and _Phil_ lying in the center of the room, he sees the cause.

 

_I guess you could say that Lion drove me to do it in the end. I’ve spent so much time being reminded of the guilt, of the pain, that I can’t even remember the real you. Or the real him. The memories have grown distant with the pain. The feeling of being alone in this soundless space only made it worse._

The feeling of being alone is a peculiar one. For Lion, by all means, the absence of sound, of feeling, should be a comfort, or at least much less of a pain. After all, it was his emotion that was torn out that night in the river, all that time ago. But seeing Phil motionless in a pool of still drying blood causes a slight reflection in the little Lion’s eyes. The bewitched whites cloud into the black, factory standard pearls.

“Phil,” Lion starts, a concern ringing in his harmless voice mixed with a hint of naivety.

 

_To you, Dan, I’m sorry that I can’t be stronger._

 

“Phil?” Lion questions, his eyes snapping back into his head, cunning grin slackening tiredly into a disturbing look of disgust, as if he’s eaten something so salty and unsavoury.

 

_You’ll never read this, I know._

 

“PHIL!” Lion’s quiet voice now pierces the edges of the room as his eyes sink further to the factory black, and lower to take in the heap of the boy before him.

 

_But it warms whatever kind of heart that I have left to know that I’ll be leaving this world at least with someone else knowing about my guilt._

 

The Lonely Lion feels his heart pulse weakly beneath his fury make. The first movement it’s made in months.

The Lonely Lion feels his fur warm and dry as his mind clears and thoughts become coloured.

The last passing thought he hears that is not his own crosses through his ears:

_Once more, Death has been exchanged for Life._

Lion regains his heart, his mind. Instantly he is shown. He has done the water’s bidding. Submitted to its chill. Exacted revenge. Purged anger. Destroyed lives. But what now?

Nothing more left to do.

_My love was traded for my jealousy. My jealousy for hate. Hate for anger. Anger for senseless violence. And now in wake of this deed so foul._

_I feel once more._

_And these terrible things that I’ve done. In the name of love._

It feels an eternity that Lion stands beside Phil. His heartbeat echoes through the empty apartment, the pulsing audible with every beat. After months of his heart’s absence, the beat is foreign and unwanted. Yet the absence now is that it has no one for whom to beat.

 

_You’ve been the most important person to come into my life, and only without you am I able to actually see that. A bit late to feel sad about that I guess._

 

It was not love that drove his actions, no, that was obsession which lost reason. Something to which not one of us, not even I, are immune. We all delve into the river, sacrifice emotion to grant permission to hurt senselessly. We allow it to control us. As if it will sustain some sort of happiness once the deed is done. However, sooner or later, one must wake to the guilt, cast aside the hate for it is no longer needed and see oneself for whom they really are.

_Before I go, though, I have to say to you, Dan, that it’s brought me some happiness to write freely about the life that we shared. It’s helped me feel like it was all a bad dream, writing in the way that I have. I’m not a journalist, but maybe I could have been one had I continued studying English._

_But then I mightn’t have met you._

Lion recoils in horror as the memories of Phil’s poor, tortured state rush through his mind like a wave of dense water, or a toppling tower of stacked feelings, crushing him beneath them as he suddenly remembers the fire.

Seeing Dan asleep peacefully on his bed, a broad smile tugging at his lips.

Throwing flames down at the curtains.

A snake like hiss erupting from Lion’s mouth as he cackled coldly when the hungry flames licked at Dan’s body to devour him.

The look of dark surprise, terror, washing over Phil’s features while storming into the room in a state of absolute panic.

Lion remembers it. Remembers how it itched deep down, a desire most foul. Remembers the way in which it satisfied an anger.

_I truly am The Lonely Lion._

The river, the qualities of jealousy, hate, anger, how cruel they are to give us back our perception only when it is too late to reverse this horrid violation of nature. A guilty conscience which Phil trusted for so long.

 

_I might’ve had my Lion for comfort, and occasionally family to talk to, but for me, Dan, you were always there, warm in flesh and blood when others weren’t. But now I can see how silly that sentence sounds, because you’re not warm in flesh and blood. Hell, you’re not flesh and blood anymore. You exist in my memory and on these pages, and on the Internet I guess._

_Once a meme, always a meme, right? That’s what you would have said were you sitting beside me now._

_I can almost imagine the comfort that you’d bring me if I were just able to breathe knowing that you’d be here._

_But I won’t talk about comfort right now. That wouldn’t be appropriate. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with hilt in hand and silver blade pressed against my most vital arteries. I think it might help if I tell you how honestly afraid I am. Dan, I know you’re dead and no amount of writing can change it. Though I’ve learned while writing this that directing my words to you, as if I’m talking to you like we always would on a regular day, makes me the most happy._

_To pretend that you’re still here makes me happy. I guess as long as I remember you, you’ll always be here._

_I guess this letter is really just for me to feel like I’m leaving something valuable behind with me. It’s not like you can hear me, talk back to me. I just don’t want to die alone, and maybe this way I can have you with me in my last moments like I always wanted to, even if they’re coming decades earlier than I thought._

_I suppose I’ll say it now while I’ve got the chance, Dan._

_I love you. I always have, and now I always will. It’s truly something I’ll never lose. I’ll be with you soon, Dan, and forevermore._

_Lastly, I speak directly to you, the readers._

_I thank you for the gift you have given me, to live out the happiest times of my life on the page, even if it must have been done under the name of another. Even now when it’s to be littered with the red of my blood._

_If you, dear Reader, have ever wondered what it means to be   ‘Lonely’, then I hope at least that this story has taught it to you. That to be lonely is to feel everything that I have encapsulated within this anthology and more. But in my final words, those of which I speak are too ghastly to mention again._

_Bye… guys,_

_Philip Michael Lester, as Mr Liam Lachrymose_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,  
> The story is marked as complete now, so it would be an excellent opportunity to tell you all directly, and not in the persona of an author but as a fan behind a computer, that I deeply appreciate the time that you've taken to read this story, which is my first real piece of writing beyond a few thousand words. It was a very ambitious project and quite a lot of work, planning, and thought went into creating this work. Overall I'm very happy to hear that it's been well received by you guys and even received at all! I never thought that this would pass even 10 hits, so I'll say now that I'm very thankful that you've taken the time to give it a go, whether you've been reading since last year or just started only yesterday. 
> 
> Secondly, I realise that this work is not perfect and that it definitely is not consistently my best writing - I apologise for any seriously long winded chapters and overly poetic writing. I realise that sometimes that can be boring to read when there's little action going on or development of plot. Hopefully in the future I'll be able to deliver a more dense plot which doesn't so much rely on imagery and symbolism, as this story has. I'm also open to prompts if anyone has anything they'd like me to write. There probably won't be any works of this length or more for some time, though I'm thinking about 2,000 to 10,000 words as the standard.
> 
> Thirdly, I tried as best as I could to make the story engaging by not breaking the immersion, as I am doing now by writing to you outside of a persona. I hope that was effective in creating a world to be lost in, but by the same token I recognise that being a work online, it isn't always appropriate to use chapter notes for the purpose of developing the story.  
> In terms of chapter notes, I was initially a little afraid of placing grammatical and spelling errors within the letters, but I assure you, they ARE meant to be there - I swear I can actually spell :) If you want an Easter Egg (happy Easter by the way!) then you can look over the chapter notes for some hints.
> 
> Lastly, I was planning on finishing this entire work last year. Wow, can you believe that? So obviously my upload schedule of a chapter biweekly didn't work out due to school and other commitments. For future works I'll endeavor to either pre-write chapters to keep your interest up, or shorten the chapters as to make them less difficult to write. Less can sometimes be more, I suppose. 
> 
> Thank you again for sticking with me until the end, I'm endlessly grateful that you've produced an audience for me to develop my writing and a stage for me to recognise the value of writing for a group of people who are passionate about the same thing.
> 
> PS. and yes, Lemony Snicket is my favourite persona of an author and I did read A Series of Unfortunate Events and make an extensive list of mannerisms which I tried very hard to copy. I'm glad that they were utilised well enough to be noticeable.
> 
> PPS. Angel_of_Darkness4444 (probably my most dedicated reader) is writing her first work on AO3 which she has kindly dedicated to me. She has some real talent and so far I've enjoyed reading what she's put up. I'm sure she'll be really happy if you check out her work here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6436534/chapters/14734066
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Unpluggedsocialfilter


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